THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE 


AND 

MIEABEAU 


BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 


CHICAGO,  NEW  YORK,  AND  SAN  FRANCISCO: 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO., 

Publishers. 


SUMMAET  OF  OOOTE^TS. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 

Chap.  I.  The  Age  of  Romance. 

The  Age  of  Romance  can  never  cease  :  All  Life  romantic,  and  even 
miraculous,  (p.  3). — How  few  men  have  the  smallest  turn  for  thinking! 
'Dignity'  and  deadness  of  History  :  Stifling  influence  of  Respectability 
No  age  ever  seemed  romantic  to  itself.  Perennial  Romance  :  The  lordliest 
Real-Phantasmagoria,  which  men  name  Being.  What  fiction  can  be  so 
wonderful,  as  the  thing  that  is?  The  Romance  of  the  Diamond  Necklace 
no  foolish  brainweb,  but  actually  '  spirit-woven  '  in  the  Loom  of  Time. 
(8). 

Chap.  II.  The  Necklace  is  made. 

Last  infirmity  of  M.  Boehmers  mind  :  The  King's  Jeweller  would  fain 
be  maker  of  the  Queen  of  Jewels.  Difference  between  making  and  ag- 
glomerating :  The  various  Histories  of  those  several  Diamonds :  What 
few  things  are  made  by  man.  A  Necklace,  fit  only  for  the  Sultana  of 
the  World,  (p.  12). 

Chap.  III.  The  Necklace  cannot  he  sold. 

Miscalculating  Boehmer  !  The  Necklace  intended  for  the  neck  of 
Du  Barry  ;  but  her  foul  day  is  now  over.  Many  praises,  but  no  pur- 
chaser. Loveliest  Marie -Antoinette,  every  inch  a  Queen.  The  Age  of 
Chivalry  gone,  and  that  of  Bankruptcy  is  come.  (p.  15). 

ChAp.  IV.  Affinities :  the  Two  Fixed-ideas. 

A  man's  little  Work  lies  not  isolated,  stranded  ;  but  is  caught-up  by 
the  boundless  Whirl  of  Things,  and  carried — who  shall  say  whither  ? 
Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  ;  a  nameless  Mass  of  delirious  Incoherence?, 
held-in  a  little  by  conventional  Politesse.  These  are  thy  gods,  O  France  \ 
Sleek  Abbe  Georgel,  a  model  Jesuit,  and  Prince  de  Rohan's  nursing- 
mother.  Embassy  to  Vienna :  Disfavour  of  Maria  Theresa  and  of  the 
fair  Antoinette,  (p.  21). — Hideous  death -of  King  Louis  the  Well-beloved. 
Rohan  returns  from  Vienna  ;  and  the  young  Queen  refuses  to  see  him. 
Teetotum-terrors  of  life  at  Court.  His  Eminence's  blank  despair,  and 
desperate  struggle  to  clutch  the  favour  he  has  lost.  Give  the  wisest  of 
.us  a  '  fixed  idea,'  and  what  can  his  wisdom  help  him  !  (26)  — Will  not 
her  Majesty  bay  poor  Boehmer's  Necklace  ?  and  oh,  will  she  not  smile 
once  more  on  poor  dissolute,  distracted  Rohan  ?  The  beautiful  clear- 
hearted  Queen,  alas,  beset  by  two  Monomaniacs;  whose  'fixed-ideas' 
may  one  day  meet.  (27). 


iv 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


■ N         Chap.  V.  The  Artist 

Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi,  a  brisk  little  nondescript  Scion -of-Royalty  : 
Her  parentage  and  hungry  prospects.  Her  singularly  undecipherable 
character.  Conscience  not  essential  to  every  character  named  human. 
A  Spark  of  vehement  Life,  not  developed  into  Will  of  any  kind,  only 
into  Desires  of  many  kinds :  Glibness,  shiftiness  and  untamability. 
(p.  31). — Kittenness  not  yet  hardened  into  cathood.  Marries  M.  de  La- 
motte,  and  dubs  him  Count.  Hard  shifts  for  a  living.  Visits  his  Emi- 
nence Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  ;  his  monomaniac  folly  now  under  Cag- 
liostro's  management.    The  glance  of  hungry  genius.  (33). 

Chap.  VI.  Will  the  Two  Fixed-ideas  meet? 

The  poor  Countess  de  Lamotte's  watergruel  rations  ;  and  desperate 
tackings  and  manceuvrings  within  wind  of  Court.  Eminence  Rohan  ar- 
rives thitherward,  driven  by  his  fixed-idea.  Idle  gossiping  and  tat- 
tling concerning  Boehmer  and  his  Necklace.  In  some  moment  of  inspir- 
ation, a  question  rises  on  our  brave  Lamotte  :  If  not  a  great  Divine 
Idea,  then  a  great  Diabolic  one.  How  Thought  rules  the  world  !  (p.  36). 
— A  female  Dramatist  worth  thinking  of.  Could  Madame  de  Lamotte 
have  written  &  Hamlet  ?  Poor  Eminence  Rohan  in  a  Prospero's  grotto 
of  Cagliostro  magic  ;  led  on  by  our  sprightly  Countess's  soft- warbling 
deceitful  blandishments.  (37). 

Chap.  VII.  Marie- Antoinette. 

The  Countess  plays  upon  the  credulity  of  his  Eminence  :  Strange  mes- 
sages for  and  from  the  innocent,  unconscious  Queen.  Frankhearted 
Marie-Antoinette  ;  beautiful  Highborn,  so  foully  hurled  low  !  The 
•  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow  '  for  all  the  wretched  :  That  wild-yelling  World, 
and  all  its  madness,  will  one  day  lie  dumb  behind  thee  !  (p.  40). 

Chap.  VIII.  The  Two  Fixed-ideas  will  unite. 

Further  dexterities  of  the  glib-tongued  Lamotte  :  How  she  managed 
with  Cagliostro.  Boehmer  is  made  to  hear  (by  accident)  of  her  new 
found  favour  with  the  Queen  ;  and  believes  it.  Drowning  men  catch 
at  straws,  and  hungry  blacklegs  stick  at  nothing,  (p.  43).  —  Can  her  Maj- 
esty be  persuaded  to  buy  the  Necklace  ?  Will  her  Majesty  deign  to  ac- 
cept a  present  so  worthy  of  her  ? — Walk  warily,  Countess  de  Lamotte, 
with  nerve  of  iron,  but  on  shoes  of  felt !  (44). 

Chap.  IX.  Parh  of  Versailles. 

Ineffable  expectancy  stirs-up  his  Eminence's  soul:  1  This  night  the 
Queen  herself  will  meet  thee  !  '  Sleep  rules  this  Hemisphere  of  the 
Wrorld  ; — rather  curious  to  consider.  Darkness  and  magical  delusions  : 
The  Countess's  successful  dramaturgy.  Ixion  de  Rohan,  and  the  foul 
Centaurs  he  begat,  (p.  47). 

Chap.  X.  Behind  the  Scenes. 

The  Lamotte  all-conquering  talent  for  intrigue.  The  Demoiselle 
d'Oliva  ;  unfortunate  Queen's  Similitude,  and  unconscious  tool  of  skil- 
ful knavery,    (p.  50). 


SUMMARY  OF  G  OF  TENTS. 


V 


Chap.  XI.  The  Necklace  is  sold. 

A  pause  :  The  two  fixed-ideas  have  felt  each  other,  and  are  rapidly 
coalescing.  His  Eminence  will  buy  the  Necklace,  on  her  Majesty's  ac- 
count. O  Dame  de  Lamotte  ! — 'I?  Who  saw  me  in  it?'  (p.  53). — 
Rohan  and  Boehmer  in  earnest  business  conference :  A  forged  Royal 
approval :  Secrecy  as  of  Death.  (54). 

Chap.  XII.  Tfie  Necklace  vanishes. 

The  bargain  concluded  ;  his  Eminence  the  proud  possessor  of  the  Dia- 
mond Necklace.  Again  the  scene  changes  ;  and  he  has  forwarded  it — 
whither  he  little  dreams,  (p.  57). 

Chap.  XIII.  Scene  Third :  by  Dame  de  Lamotte. 

Cagliostro,  with  his  greasy  prophetic  bulldog  face.  Countess  de  La- 
motte and  his  Eminence  in  the  Versailles  Gallery.  Through  that  long 
Gallery,  what  Figures  have  passed,  and  vanished  !  The  Queen  now 
passes  ;  and  graciously  looks  this  way,  according  to  her  habit :  Dame  de 
Lamotte  looks  on,  and  dextrously  pilfers  the  royal  glances.  Eminence 
de  Rohan"'s  helpless,  bottomless,  beatific  folly,  (p.  59). 

Chap.  XIV.  The  Necklace  cannot  be  paid. 

The  Countess's  Dramaturgic  labours  terminate.  How  strangely  in  life 
the  Play  goes  on  even  when  the  Mover  has  left  it !  No  Act  of  man  can 
ever  die.  His  Eminence  finds  himself  no  nearer  his  expected  goal :  Un- 
speakable perturbations  of  soul  and  body.  (p.  61). — Blacklegs  in  full 
feather  :  Rascaldom  has  no  strong-box.  Dame  de  Lamotte  gaily  stands 
the  brunt  of  the  threatening  Earthquake  :  The  farthest  in  the  world  from 
a  brave  woman.  (62). — Gloomy  weather-symptoms  for  his  Eminence  : 
A  thunder-clap  {per  Countess  de  Lamotte)  ;  and  mud-explosion  beyond 
parallel.  (64). 

Chap.  XV.  Scene  Fourth  :  by  Destiny. 

Assumption -day  at  Versailles; — a  thing  they  call  worshipping  God  to 
enact :  All  Noble  France,  waiting  only  the  signal  to  begin  worshipping. 
Eminence  de  Rohan  chief-actor  in  the  imposing  scene.  Arrestment  in 
the  King's  name  :  There  will  be  no  Assumption-service  this  day.  The 
Bastille  opens  its  iron  bosom  to  all  the  actors  in  the  Diamond-drama, 
(p.  65). 

Chap.  XVI.  Missa  est. 

The  extraordinary  1  Necklace  Trial,'  an  astonishment  and  scandal  to 
the  whole  world.  Prophetic  Discourse  by  Count  Arch-Quack  Cagliostro: 
— Universal  Empire  of  Scoundrelism  :.  Truth  wedded  to  Sham  gives  birth 
to  Respectability.  The  old  Christian  whim,  of  some  sacred  covenant  with 
an  actual,  living  and  ruling  God.  Scoundrel  Worship  and  Philosophy : 
Deep  significance  of  the  Gallows.  Hideous  fate  of  Dame  de  Lamotte. 
Unfortunate  foully-slandered  Queen:  Her  eyes  red  with  their  first  tears 
of  pure  bitterness.  The  Empire  of  Imposture  in  flames. — This  strange, 
many-tinted  Business,  like  a  little  cloud  from  which  wise  men  boded 
Earthquakes,  (p.  77). 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE.1 


[1837.] 
CHAPTER  I. 

AGE    OF  ROMANCE. 

The  Age  of  Romance  has  not  ceased ;  it  never  ceases  ;  it 
does  not,  if  we  will  think  of  it,  so  much  as  very  sensibly  de- 
cline. "The  passions  are  repressed  by  social  forms;  great 
passions  no  longer  show  themselves  ?  "  Why,  there  are  pas- 
sions still  great  enough  to  replenish  Bedlam,  for  it  never  wants 
tenants  ;  to  suspend  men  from  bed-posts,  from  improved-drops 
at  the  west  end  of  Newgate.  A  passion  that  explosively  shivers 
asunder  the  Life  it  took  rise  in,  ought  to  be  regarded  as  con- 
siderable :  more  no  passion,  in  the  highest  heyday  of  Romance, 
yet  did.  The  passions,  by  grace  of  the  Supernal  and  also  of 
the  Infernal  Powers  (for  both  have  a  hand  in  it),  can  never 
fail  us. 

And  then,  as  to  '  social  forms,'  be  it  granted  that  they  are 
of  the  most  buckram  quality,  and  bind  men  up  into  the  piti- 
fullest  straitlaced  commonplace  existence, — you  ask,  Where  is 
the  Romance  ?  In  the  Scotch  way  one  answers,  Where  is  it 
not  ?  That  very  spectacle  of  an  Immortal  Nature,  with  facul- 
ties and  destiny  extending  through  Eternity,  hampered  and 
bandaged  up,  by  nurses,  pedagogues,  posture-masters,  and 
the  tongues  of  innumerable  old  women  (named  '  force  of  pub- 
lic opinion ')  ;  by  prejudice,  custom,  want  of  knowledge,  want 
of  money,  want  of  strength,  into,  say,  the  meagre  Pattern, 
Figure  that,  in  these  days,  meets  you  in  all  thoroughfares :  a 
'god-created  Man,'  all  but  abnegating  the  character  of  Man  ; 
1  Frasek's  Magazine,  Nos.  85  and  86. 


4 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


forced  to  exist,  automatised,  mummy-wise  (scarcely  in  rare 
moments  audible  or  visible  from  amid  his  wrappages  and  cere- 
ments), as  Gentleman  or  Gigman  ;  1  and  so  selling  his  birth- 
right of  Eternity  for  the  three  daily  meals,  poor  at  best,  which 
Time  yields  : — is  not  this  spectacle  itself  highly  romantic, 
tragical,  if  we  had  eyes  to  look  at  it  ?  The  high-born  (highest- 
born,  for  he  came  out  of  Heaven)  lies  drowning  in  the  despica- 
blest  puddles  ;  the  priceless  gift  of  Life,  which  he  can  have 
but  once,  for  he  waited  a  whole  Eternity  to  be  born,  and  now 
has  a  whole  Eternity  waiting  to  see  what  he  will  do  when  born, 
— this  priceless  gift  we  see  strangled  slowly  out  of  him  by  in- 
numerable packthreads  ;  and  there  remains  of  the  glorious 
Possibility,  which  we  fondly  named  Man,  nothing  but  an  in- 
animate mass  of  foul  loss  and  disappointment,  which  we  wrap 
in  shrouds  and  bury  underground,  — surely  with  well-merited 
tears.  To  the  Thinker  here  lies  Tragedy  enough  ;  the  epitome 
and  marrow  of  all  Tragedy  whatsoever. 

But  so  few  are  Thinkers  ?  Ay,  Reader,  so  few  think  ;  there 
is  the  rub  !  Not  one  in  the  thousand  has  the  smallest  turn 
for  thinking  ;  only  for  passive  dreaming  and  hear  saying,  and 
active  babbling  by  rote.  Of  the  eyes  that  men  do  glare  withal 
so  few  can  see.  Thus  is  the  world  become  such  a  fearful  con- 
fused Treadmill  ;  and  each  man's  task  has  got  entangled  in 
his  neighbour's,  and  pulls  it  awry  ;  and  the  Spirit  of  Blindness, 
Falsehood  and  Distraction,  justly  named  the  Devil,  continu- 
ally maintains  himself  among  us ;  and  even  hopes  (were  it 
not  for  the  Opposition,  which  by  God's  grace  will  also  main- 
tain itself)  to  become  supreme,  Thus  too,  among  other  things, 
has  the  Bomance  of  Life  gone  wholly  out  of  sight  :  and  all 
History,  degenerating  into  empty  invoice-lists  of  Pitched 
Battles  and  Changes  of  Ministry  ;  or  still  worse,  into  '  Con- 
stitutional History,'  or  'Philosophy of  History,'  or  'Philosophy 
teaching  by  Experience,'  is  become  dead,  as  the  Almanacs  of 
other  years, — to  which  species  of  composition,  indeed,  it  bears, 
in  several  points  of  view,  no  inconsiderable  affinity. 

'Of  all  blinds  that  shut-up  men's  vision,'  says  one,  c  the 

1  *  I  always  considered  liim  a  respectable  man. — What  do  you  mean  by 
respectable  V    He  kept  a  Gig.' — ThurteWs  Trial. 


AGE  OF  ROMANCE. 


5 


worst  is  Self.'  How  true!  How  doubly  true,  if  Self,  assum- 
ing her  eunningest,  yet  miserablest  disguise,  come  on  us,  in 
never-ceasing,  all -obscuring  reflexes  from  the  innumerable 
Selves  of  others  ;  not  as  Pride,  not  even  as  real  Hunger,  but 
only  as  Vanity,  and  the  shadow  of  an  imaginary  Hunger  for 
Applause  ;  under  the  name  of  what  we  call  ' Kespectability  ! ' 
Alas  now  for  our  Historian  :  to  his  other  spiritual  deadness 
(which  however,  so  long  as  he  physically  breathes,  cannot  be 
considered  complete)  this  sad  new  magic  influence  is  added  ! 
Henceforth  his  Histories  must  all  be  screwed  up  into  the 
£  dignity  of  History.'  Instead  of  looking  fixedly  at  the  Thing, 
and  first  of  all,  and  beyond  all,  endeavouring  to  see  it,  and 
fashion  a  living  Picture  of  it,  not  a  wretched  politico-meta- 
physical Abstraction  of  it,  he  has  now  quite  other  matters  to 
look  to.  The  Thing  lies  shrouded,  invisible,  in  thousandfold 
hallucinations,  and  foreign  air-images : ( What  did  the  Whigs 
say  of  it  ?  What  did  the  Tories  ?  The  Priests  ?  The  Free- 
thinkers ?  Above  all,  What  will  my  own  listening  circle  say 
of  me  for  what  I  say  of  it  ?  And  then  his  Kespectability  in 
general,  as  a  literary  gentleman ;  his  not  despicable  talent  for 
philosophy  !  Thus  is  our  poor  Historian's  faculty  directed 
mainly  on  two  objects  :  the  Writing  and  the  Writer,  both  of 
which  are  quite  extraneous  ;  and  the  Thing  written-of  fares  as 
we  see.  Can  it  be  wonderful  that  Histories,  wherein  open 
lying  is  not  permitted,  are  unromantic  ?  Nay,  our  very  Bi- 
ographies, how  stiff- starched,  visionless,  hollow !  They  stand 
there  respectable ;  and — what  more  ?  Dumb  idols  ;  with  a 
skin  of  delusively  painted  wax- work  ;  inwardly  empty,  or  full  of 
rags  and  bran.  In  our  England  especially,  which  in  these  days 
is  become  the  chosen  land  of  Respectability,  Life-writing  has 
dwindled  to  the  sorrowfullest  condition ;  it  requires  a  man  to 
be  some  disrespectable,  ridiculous  Boswell  before  he  can 
write  a  tolerable  Life.  Thus  too,  strangely  enough,  the 
only  Lives  worth  reading  are  those  of  Players,  emptiest  and 
poorest  of  the  sons  of  Adam  ;  who  nevertheless  were  sons 
of  his,  and  brothers  of  ours  ;  and  by  the  nature  of  the  case, 
had  already  bidden  Respectability  good-day.  Such  bounties, 
in  this  as  in  infinitely  deeper  matters,  does  Respectability 


6 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


shower  down  on  us.  Sad  are  thy  doings,  O  Gig ;  sadder  than 
those  of  Juggernaut's  Car  :  that,  with  huge  wheel,  suddenly 
crushes  asunder  the  bodies  of  men  ;  thou  in  thy  light-bob- 
bing Long -Acre  springs,  gradually  winnowest  away  their 
souls ! 

Depend  upon  it,  for  one  thing,  good  Reader,  no  age  ever 
seemed  the  Age  of  Romance  to  itself.  Charlemagne,  let  the 
Poets  talk  as  they  will,  had  his  own  provocations  in  the  world  : 
what  with  selling  of  his  poultry  and  pot-herbs,  what  with 
wanton  daughters  carrying  secretaries  through  the  snow  ; 
and,  for  instance,  that  hanging  of  the  Saxons  over  the  Weser- 
bridge  (four  thousand  of  them  they  say,  at  one  bout),  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  Great  Charles  had  his  temper  ruffled  at  times. 
Roland  of  Roncesvalles  too,  we  see  well  in  thinking  of  it, 
found  rainy  weather  as  well  as  sunny  ;  knew  what  it  was  to 
have  hose  need  darning ;  got  tough  beef  to  chew,  or  even 
went  dinnerless  ;  was  saddle-sick,  calumniated,  constipated 
(as  his  madness  too  clearly  indicates)  ;  and  oftenest  felt,  I 
doubt  not,  that  this  was  a  very  Devil's  world,  and  he,  Roland 
himself,  one  of  the  sorriest  caitiffs  there.  Only  in  long  sub- 
sequent days,  when  the  tough  beef,  the  constipation  and  the 
calumny  had  clean  vanished,  did  it  all  begin  to  seem  Roman- 
tic, and  your  Turpins  and  Ariostos  found  music  in  it.  So,  I 
say,  is  it  ever  !  And  the  more,  as  your  true  hero,  your  true 
Roland,  is  ever  unconscious  that  he  is  a  hero  :  this  is  a  condi- 
tion of  all  greatness. 

In  our  own  poor  Nineteenth  Century,  the  "Writer  of  these 
lines  has  been  fortunate  enough  to  see  not  a  few  glimpses  of 
Romance  ;  he  imagines  his  Nineteenth  is  hardly  a  whit  less 
romantic  than  that  Ninth,  or  any  other,  since  centuries  began. 
Apart  from  Napoleon,  and  the  Dantons,  and  Mirabeaus,  whose 
fire-words  of  public  speaking,  and  fire-whirlwinds  of  cannon 
and  musketry,  which  for  a  season  darkened  the  air,  are  per- 
haps at  bottom  but  superficial  phenomena,  he  has  witnessed, 
in  remotest  places,  much  that  could  be  called  romantic,  even 
miraculous.  He  has  witnessed  overhead  the  infinite  Deep, 
with  greater  and  lesser  lights,  bright-rolling,  silent-beaming, 
hurled  forth  by  the  Hand  of  God :  around  him  and  under  his 


AGE  OF  ROMANCE. 


7 


feet,  the  wonderfullest  Earth,  with  her  winter  snow-storms 
and  her  summer  spice-airs  ;  and,  unaccountablest  of  all,  him- 
self standing  there.  He  stood  in  the  lapse  of  Time  ;  he  saw 
Eternity  behind  him,  and  before  him.  The  all-encircling 
mysterious  tide  of  Force,  thousandfold  (for  from  force  of 
Thought  to  force  of  Gravitation  what  an  interval !)  billowed 
shoreless  on  ;  bore  him  too  along  with  it, — he  too  was  part 
of  it.  From  its  bosom  rose  and  vanished,  in  perpetual  change, 
the  lordliest  Real-Phantasmagory,  which  men  name  Being ; 
and  ever  anew  rose  and  vanished  ;  and  ever  that  lordliest 
many-coloured  scene  was  full,  another  yet  the  same.  Oak- 
trees  fell,  young  acorns  sprang :  Men  too,  new-sent  from  the 
Unknown,  he  met,  of  tiniest  size,  who  waxed  into  stature,  into 
strength  of  sinew,  passionate  fire  and  light :  in  other  men  the 
light  was  growing  diim  the  sinews  all  feeble  ;  then  sank,  mo- 
tionless, into  ashes,  into  invisibility  ;  returned  back  to  the 
Unknown,  beckoning  him  their  mute  farewell.  He  wanders 
still  by  the  parting-spot ;  cannot  hear  them  ;  they  are  far,  how 
far  ! — It  was  a  sight  for  angels,  and  archangels  ;  for,  indeed, 
God  himself  had  made  it  wholly.  One  many  glancing  asbes- 
tos-thread in  the  Web  of  Universal-History,  spirit-woven,  it 
rustled  there,  as  with  the  howl  of  mighty  winds,  through  that 
c  wild-roaring  Loom  of  Time/  Generation  after  generation, 
hundreds  of  them  or  thousands  of  them  from  the  unknown 
Beginning,  so  loud,  so  storm ful-busy,  rushed  torrent-wise, 
thundering  down,  down  ;  and  fell  all  silent, — nothing  but 
some  feeble  re-echo,  which  grew  ever  feebler,  struggling  up  ; 
and  Oblivion  swallowed  them  all.  Thousands  more,  to  the 
unknown  Ending,  will  follow  :  and  thou  here,  of  this  present 
one,  hangest  as  a  drop,  still  sungilt,  on  the  giddy  edge  ;  one 
moment,  while  the  Darkness  has  not  yet  engulphed  thee.  O 
Brother  !  is  that  what  thou  callest  prosaic  ;  of  small  interest  ? 
Of  small  interest  and  for  thee  ?  Awake  poor  troubled  sleeper  : 
shake  off  thy  torpid  nightmare-dream  ;  look,  see,  behold  it, 
the  Flame-image  ;  splendours  high  as  Heaven,  terrors  deep 
as  Hell :  this  is  God's  Creation  ;  this  is  Man's  Life  ! — Such 
things  has  the  "Writer  of  these  lines  witnessed,  in  this  jDOor 
Nineteenth  Century  of  ours  ;  and  what  are  all  such  to  the 


8 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


things  he  yet  hopes  to  witness  ?  Hopes,  with  truest  assur- 
ance. £  I  have  painted  so  much/  said  the  good  Jean  Paul,  in 
his  old  days,  £  and  I  have  never  seen  the  Ocean  ;  the  Ocean  of 
Eternity  I  shall  not  fail  to  see  ! ' 

Such  being  the  intrinsic  quality  of  this  Time,  and  of  all 
Time  whatsoever,  might  not  the  Poet  who  chanced  to  walk 
through  it  find  objects  enough  to  paint?  What  object  soever 
he  fixed  on,  were  it  the  meanest  of  the  mean,  let  him  but 
paint  it  in  its  actual  truth,  as  it  swims  there,  in  such  environ- 
ment ;  world-old,  yet  new  and  never-ending  ;  an  indestructi- 
ble portion  of  the  miraculous  All, — his  picture  of  it  were  a 
Poem.  How  much  more  if  the  object  fixed  on  were  not  mean, 
but  one  already  wonderful ;  the  mystic  £  actual  truth '  of 
which,  if  it  lay  not  on  the  surface,  yet  shone  through  the 
surface,  and  invited  even  Prosaists  to  search  for  it ! 

The  present  "Writer,  who  unhappily  belongs  to  that  class, 
has  nevertheless  a  firmer  and  firmer  persuasion  of  two  things  : 
first,  as  was  seen,  that  Romance  exists  ;  secondly,  that  now, 
and  formerly,  and  evermore  it  exists,  strictly  speaking,  in 
Reality  alone.  The  thing  that  is,  what  can  be  so  wonderful ; 
what,  especially  to  us  that  are,  can  have  such  significance  ? 
Study  Reality,  he  is  ever  and  anon  saying  to  himself  ;  search 
out  deeper  and  deeper  its  quite  endless  mystery  :  see  it,  know 
it ;  then,  whether  thou  wouldst  learn  from  it,  and  again  teach  ; 
or  weep  over  it,  or  laugh  over  it,  or  love  it,  or  despise  it,  or 
in  any  way  relate  thyself  to  it,  thou  hast  the  firmest  endur- 
ing basis  :  that  hieroglyphic  page  is  one  thou  canst  read  on 
forever,  find  new  meaning  in  forever. 

Finally,  and  in  a  word,  do  not  the  critics  teach  us  :  £  In 
'  whatsoever  thing  thou  hast  thyself  felt  interest,  in  that  or  in 
6  nothing  hope  to  inspire  others  with  interest  ?  ' — In  partial 
obedience  to  all  which,  and  to  many  other  principles,  shall  the 
following  small  Romance  of  the  Diamond  Necklace  begin  to 
come  together.  A  small  Romance,  let  the  reader  again  and 
again  assure  himself,  which  is  no  brainweb  of  mine,  or  of  any 
other  foolish  man's  ;  but  a  fraction  of  that  mystic  £  spirit- 
woven  web,'  from  the  'Loom  of  Time,'  spoken  of  above.  It 
is  an  actual  Transaction  that  happened  in  this  Earth  of  ours. 


THE  NECKLACE  18  MADE. 


9 


Wherewith  our  whole  business,  as  already  urged,  is  to  paint  it 
truly. 

For  the  rest,  an  earnest  inspection,  faithful  endeavour  has  not 
been  wanting,  on  our  part ;  nor,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  the 
strictest  regard  to  chronology,  geography  (or  rather  in  this  case, 
topography),  documentary  evidence,  and  what  else  true  histori- 
cal research  would  yield.  Were  there  but  on  the  reader's  part 
a  kindred  openness,  a  kindred  spirit  of  endeavour  !  Beshone 
strongly,  on  both  sides,  by  such  united  two-fold  Philosophy, 
this  poor  opaque  Intrigue  of  the  Diamond  Necklace  might  be- 
come quite  translucent  between  us ;  transfigured,  lifted  up 
into  the  serene  of  Universal-History  ;  and  might  hang  there 
like  a  smallest  Diamond  Constellation,  visible  without  tele- 
scope,— so  long  as  it  could. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  NECKLACE  IS  MADE. 

Herr,  or  as  he  is  now  called  Monsieur,  Boehmer,  to  all  ap= 
pearance  wanted  not  that  last  infirmity  of  noble  and  ignoble 
minds — a  love  of  fame  ;  he  was  destined  also  to  be  famous 
more  than  enough.  His  outlooks  into  the  wrorld  were  rather 
of  a  smiling  character :  he  has  long  since  exchanged  his  gut- 
tural speech,  as  far  as  possible,  for  a  nasal  one  ;  his  rustic 
Saxon  fatherland  for  a  polished  city  of  Paris,  and  thriven 
there.  United  in  partnership  with  wTorthy  Monsieur  Bas- 
sange,  a  sound  practical  man,  skilled  in  the  valuation  of  all 
precious  stones,  in  the  management  of  workmen,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  their  work,  he  already  sees  himself  among  the  high- 
est of  his  guild  :  nay,  rather  the  very  highest, — for  he  has  se- 
cured, by  purchase  and  hard  money  paid,  the  title  of  King's 
Jeweller  ;  and  can  enter  the  Court  itself,  leaving  all  other 
Jewellers,  and  even  innumerable  Gentlemen,  Gigmen  and 
small  Nobility,  to  languish  in  the  vestibule.  Witli  the  cost- 
liest ornaments  in  his  pocket,  or  borne  after  him  by  assiduous 
shopboys,  the  happy  Boehmer  sees  high  drawing  rooms  and 
sacred  ruelles  fly  open,  as  with  talismanic  Sesame ;  and  the 


10 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


brightest  eyes  of  the  whole  world  grow  brighter :  to  him 
alone  of  men  the  Unapproachable  reveals  herself  in  mysteri- 
ous negligee  ;  taking  and  giving  counsel.  Do  not,  on  all  gala- 
days  and  gala-nights,  his  works  praise  him  ?  On  the  gorgeous 
robes  of  State,  on  Court-dresses  and  Lords'  stars,  on  the  dia- 
dem of  Eoyalty  :  better  still,  on  the  swan-neck  of  Beauty,  and  ■ 
her  queenly  garniture  from  plume-bearing  aigrette  to  shoe- 
buckle  on  fairy- slipper, — that  blinding  play  of  colours  is  Boeh- 
mer's  doing  :  he  is  Joaillier-Bijoutier  de  la  Reine. 

Gould  the  man  but  have  been  content  wdth  it !  He  could 
not :  Icarus-like,  he  must  mount  too  high  ;  have  his  wax- wings 
melted,  and  descend  prostrate, — amid  a  cloud  of  vain  goose- 
quills.  One  day,  a  fatal  day  (of  some  year,  probably  among 
the  Seventies  of  last  Century l),  it  struck  Boehmer  :  Why 
should  not  I,  who,  as  Most  Christian  King's  Jeweller,  am 
properly  first  Jeweller  of  the  Universe, — make  a  Jewel  wiiich 
the  Universe  has  not  matched  ?  Nothing  can  prevent  thee, 
Boehmer,  if  thou  have  the  skill  to  do  it.  Skill  or  no  skill,  an- 
swers he,  I  have  the  ambition  :  my  Jewel,  if  not  the  beautiful- 
lest,  shall  be  the  dearest.  Thus  wTas  the  Diamond  Necklace 
determined  on. 

Did  worthy  Bassange  give  a  willing,  or  a  reluctant  consent  ? 
In  any  case  he  consents  ;  and  cooperates.  Plans  are  sketched, 
consultations  held,  stucco  models  made  ;  by  money  or  credit 
the  costliest  diamonds  come  in  ;  cunning  craftsmen  cut  them, 
set  them  :  proud  Boehmer  sees  the  work  go  prosperously  on. 
Proud  man  !  Behold  him  on  a  morning  after  breakfast :  he 
has  stepped  down  to  the  innermost  workshop,  before  sallying 
out ;  stands  there  wdth  his  laced  three-cornered  hat,  cane 
under  arm  ;  drawing-on  his  gloves  :  with  nod,  with  nasal- 
guttural  word,  he  gives  judicious  confirmation,  judicious  ab- 
negation, censure  and  approval.  A  still  joy  is  dawning  over 
that  bland,  blond  face  of  his  ;  he  can  think,  while  in  man}7  a 
sacred  boudoir  he  visits  the  Unapproachable,  that  an  opus 

1  Except  that  Madame  Campan  (Memoires,  tome  ii.)  says  the  Necklace 
4  was  intended  for  Du  Barry,'  one  cannot  discover,  within  many  years, 
the  date  of  its  manufacture.  Du  Barry  went '  into  half-pay  '  on  the  lOtli 
of  May  1774,— the  day  wheu  her  king  died. 


THE  NECKLACE  IS  MADE. 


11 


magnum,  of  which  the  world  wotteth  not,  is  progressing.  At 
length  comes  a  morning  when  care  has  terminated,  and  joy 
can  not  only  dawn  but  shine  ;  the  Necklace,  which  shall  be  fa- 
mous and  world-famous,  is  made. 

Made  we  call  it,  in  conformity  with  common  speech  :  but 
properly  it  was  not  made  ;  only,  with  more  or  less  spirit  of 
method,  arranged  and  agglomerated.  What  spirit  of  method 
lay  in  it,  might  be  made  ;  nothing  more.  But  to  tell  the 
various  Histories  of  those  various  Diamonds,  from  the  first 
making  of  them  ;  or  even,  omitting  all  the  rest,  from  the  first 
digging  of  them  in  the  far  Indian  mines  !  How  they  lay,  for 
uncounted  ages  and  seons  (under  the  uproar  and  splashing  of 
such  Deucalion  Deluges,  and  Hutton  Explosions,  with  steam 
enough,  and  Werner  Submersions),  silently  imbedded  in  the 
rock  ;  did  nevertheless,  when  their  hour  came,  emerge  from 
it,  and  first  beheld  the  glorious  Sun  smile  on  them,  and  with 
their  many-coloured  glances  smile  back  on  him.  How  they 
served  next,  let  us  say,  as  eyes  of  Heathen  Idols,  and  received 
worship.  How  they  had  then,  by  fortune  of  war  or  theft, 
been  knocked  out ;  and  exchanged  among  camp-sutlers  for  a 
little  spirituous  liquor,  and  bought  by  Jews,  and  worn  as  sig- 
nets on  the  fingers  of  tawny  or  white  Majesties ;  and  again 
been  lost,  with  the  fingers  too,  and  perhaps  life  (as  by  Charles 
the  Kash,  among  the  mud-ditches  of  Nancy),  in  old-forgotten 
glorious  victories  :  and  so,  through  innumerable  varieties  of 
fortune, — had  come  at  last  to  the  cutting-wheel  of  Boehmer  ; 
to  be  united,  in  strange  fellowship,  with  comrades  also  blown 
together  from  all  ends  of  the  Earth,  each  with  a  history  of  its 
own  !  Could  these  aged  stones,  the  youngest  of  them  Six 
Thousand  years  of  age  and  upwards,  but  have  spoken,  there 
were  an  Experience  for  Philosophy  to  teach  by  ! — But  now, 
as  was  said,  by  little  caps  of  gold,  and  daintiest  rings  of  the 
same,  they  are  all  being,  so  to  speak,  enlisted  under  Boehmer's 
flag, — made  to  take  rank  and  file,  in  new  order,  no  Jewel  ask- 
ing his  neighbour  whence  he  came  ;  and  parade  there  for  a 
season.  For  a  season  only  ;  and  then — to  disperse,  and  enlist 
anew  ad  infinitum.  In  such  inexplicable  wise  are  Jewels,  and 
Men  also,  and  indeed  all  earthly  things,  jumbled  together  and 


12 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


asunder,  and  shovelled  and  wafted  to  and  fro,  in  our  inex« 
plicable  chaos  of  a  World.  This  was  what  Boehmer  called 
making  his  Necklace. 

So,  in  fact,  do  other  men  speak,  and  with  even  less  reason. 
How  many  men,  for  example,  hast  thou  heard  talk  of  making 
money  ;  of  making,  say,  a  million  and  a  half  of  money  :  Of 
which  million  and  a  half,  how  much,  if  one  were  to  look  into 
it,  had  they  made  f  The  accurate  value  of  their  Industry  ; 
not  a  sixpence  more.  Their  making,  then,  was  but,  like 
Boehmer's  a  clutching  and  heaping  together  ; — by-and-by  to 
be  followed  also  by  a  dispersion.  Made  ?  Thou  too  vain  indi- 
vidual !  were  these  towered  ashlar  edifices  ;  were  these  fair 
bounteous  leas,  with  their  bosky  umbrages  and  yellow  har- 
vests ;  and  the  sunshine  that  lights  them  from  above,  and  the 
granite  rocks  and  fire-reservoirs  that  support  them  from  below, 
made  by  thee  ?  I  think,  by  another.  The  very  shilling  that 
thou  hast  was  dug,  by  man's  force,  in  Carinthia  and  Paraguay  ; 
smelted  sufficiently  ;  and  stamped,  as  would  seem,  not  with- 
out the  advice  of  our  late  Defender  of  the  Faith,  his  Majesty 
George  the  Fourth.  Thou  hast  it,  and  holdest  it ;  but  whether, 
or  in  what  sense,  thou  hast  made  any  farthing  of  it,  thyself 
canst  not  say.  If  the  courteous  reader  ask,  What  things,  then, 
are  made  by  man  ?  I  will  answer  him,  Very  few  indeed.  A 
Heroism,  a  Wisdom  (a  god-given  Volition  that  has  realised 
itself),  is  made  now  and  then  :  for  example,  some  five  or  six 
Books,  since  the  Creation,  have  been  made.  Strange  that 
there  are  not  more  :  for  surely  every  encouragement  is  held 
out.  Could  I,  or  thou,  happy  reader,  but  make  one,  the  world 
would  let  us  keep  it  unstolen  for  Fourteen  whole  years, — and 
take  what  we  could  get  for  it. 

But,  in  a  word,  Monsieur  Boehmer  has  made  his  Necklace, 
what  he  calls  made  it :  happy  man  is  he.  From  a  Drawing,  as 
large  as  reality,  kindly  furnished  by  '  Taunay,  Printseller,  of  the 
Bue  d'Enfer ; 1 1  and  again,  in  late  years,  by  the  Abbe  Georgel,  in 

1  Frontispiece  of  the  1 Affaire  clu  Collier,  Paris,  1785;'  wherefrom 
Georgel's  Editor  has  copied  it.  This  1  Affaire  du  Collier,  Paris,  1785,'  is  not 
properly  a  Book;  but  a  bound  Collection  of  such  Law-Papers  (Ale moires 
pour,  &c.)  as  were  printed  and  emitted  by  the  various  parties  in  tha* 


THE  NECKLACE  IS  MADE. 


13 


the  Second  Volume  of  Lis  Memoires  curious  readers  can  still 
fancy  to  themselves  what  a  princely  Ornament  it  was.  A  row 
of  seventeen  glorious  diamonds,  as  large  almost  as  filberts, 
encircle,  not  too  tightly,  the  neck,  a  first  time.  Looser,  grace- 
fully fastened  thrice  to  these,  a  three-wreathed  festoon,  and 
pendants  enough  (simple  pear-shaped,  multiple  star-shaped,  or 
clustering  amorphous)  encircle  it,  en  wreath  it,  a  second  time0 
Loosest  of  all,  softly  flowing  round  from  behind,  in  priceless 
catenary,  rush  down  two  broad  threefold  rows  ;  seem  to  knot 

famed  '  Necklace  Trial. '  These  Law-Papers,  bound  into  Two  Volumes 
quarto  ;  with  Portraits,  such  as  the  Printshops  yielded  them  at  the  time  ; 
likewise  with  patches  of  Ms. ,  containing  Notes,  Pasquinade-songs,  and  the 
like,  of  the  most  unspeakable  character  occasionally, — constitute  this 
1 Affaire  du  Collier  ;  '  which  the  Paris  Dealers  in  Old  Books  can  still  pro- 
care  there.  It  is  one  of  the  large-st  collections  of  Falsehoods  that  exists  in 
print  ;  and,  unfortunately,  still,  after  all  the  narrating  and  history  there 
has  been  on  the  subject,  forms  our  chief  means  of  getting  at  the  truth 
ol  that  Transaction.  The  First  Volume  contains  some  Twenty-one  Me- 
moires pour  :  not,  of  course,  Historical  statements  of  truth  ;  but  Culprits* 
and  Lawyers'  statements  of  what  they  wished  to  be  believed  ;  each  party 
lying  according  to  his  ability  to  lie.  To  reach  the  truth,  or  even  any 
honest  guess  at  the  truth,  the  immensities  of  rubbish  must  be  sifted,  con- 
trasted, rejected  :  what  grain  of  historical  evidence  may  lie  at  the  bottom 
is  then  attainable.  Thus,  as  this  Transaction  of  the  Diamond  Necklace 
has  been  called  the  '  Largest  Lie  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,'  so  it  comes 
to  us  borne,  not  unfitly,  on  a  whole  illimitable  dim  Chaos  of  Lies  ! 

Nay,  the  Second  Volume,  entitled  Suite  de  V Affaire  du  Collier,  is  still 
stranger.  It  relates  to  the  Intrigue  and  Trial  of  one  Bette  d'Etienville, 
who  represents  himself  as  a  poor  lad  that  had  been  kidnapped,  blind- 
folded, introduced  to  beautiful  Ladies,  and  engaged  to  get  husbands  for 
them  ;  as  setting  out  on  this  task,  and  gradually  getting  quite  bewitched 
and  bewildered  ; — most  indubitably,  going  on  to  bewitch  and  bewilder 
other  people  on  all  hands  of  him :  the  whole  in  consequence  of  this  '  Neck- 
lace  Trial,'  and  the  noise  it  was  making !  Very  curious.  The  Lawyers 
did  verily  busy  themselves  with  this  affair  of  Bette's  ;  there  are  scarecrow 
Portraits  given,  that  stood  in  the  Printshops,  and  no  man  can  know' 
whether  the  Originals  ever  so  much  as  existed.  It  is  like  the  Dream  of 
a  Dream.  The  human  mind  stands  stupent  ;  ejaculates  the  wish  that 
such  Gulf  of  Falsehood  would  close  itself, — before  general  Delirium 
supervene,  and  the  Speech  of  Man  become  mere  incredible,  meaningless 
jargon,  like  that  of  choughs  and  daws.  Even  from  Bette,  however,  \>y 
assiduous  sifting,  one  gathers  a  particle  of  truth  here  and  there. 


14 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


themselves,  round  a  very  Queen  of  Diamonds,  on  the  bosom  ; 
then  rush  on,  again  separated,  as  if  there  were  length  in  plenty  ; 
the  very  tassels  of  them  were  a  fortune  for  some  men.  And 
now  lastly,  two  other  inexpressible  threefold  rows,  also  with 
their  tassels,  will,  when  the  Necklace  is  on  and  clasped,  unite 
themselves  behind  into  a  doubly  inexpressible  sixfold  row  ; 
and  so  stream  down,  together  or  asunder,  over  the  hind-neck, 
— we  may  fancy,  like  lambent  Zodiacal  or  Aurora-Borealis 
fire. 

All  these  on  a  neck  of  snow  slight-tinged  with  rose -bloom, 
and  within  it  royal  Life  :  amidst  the  blaze  of  lustres  ;  in 
sylphish  movements,  espiegleries,  coquetteries,  and  minuet- 
mazes  ;  with  every  movement  a  flash  of  star-rainbow  colours, 
bright  almost  as  the  movements  of  the  fair  young  soul  it  em- 
blems !  A  glorious  ornament  ;  fit  only  for  the  Sultana  of  the 
World.  Indeed,  only  attainable  by  such  ;  for  it  is  valued  at 
1,800,000  livres  ;  say  in  round  numbers,  and  sterling  money, 
between  eighty  and  ninety  thousand  pounds, 


CHAPTEE  III. 

THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  SOLD. 

Miscalculating  Boehmer  !  The  Sultana  of  the  Earth  shall 
never  wear  that  Necklace  of  thine  ;  no  neck,  either  royal  or 
vassal,  shall  ever  be  the  lovelier  for  it.  In  the  present  dis- 
tressed state  of  our  finances,  with  the  American  "War  raging 
round  us,  where  thinkest  thou  are  eighty  thousand  pounds  to 
be  raised  for  such  a  thing  ?  In  this  hungry  world,  thou  fool, 
these  five  hundred  and  odd  Diamonds,  good  only  for  looking 
at,  are  intrinsically  worth  less  to  us  than  a  string  of  as  many 
dry  Irish  potatoes,  on  which  a  famishing  Sansculotte  might 
fill  his  belly.  Little  knowest  thou,  laughing  Joaillier-Bijou- 
tier,  great  in  thy  pride  of  place,  in  thy  pride  of  savoir-faire, 
what  the  world  has  in  store  for  thee.  Thou  laughest  there  ; 
by-and-by  thou  wilt  laugh  on  the  wrrong  side  of  thy  face 
mainly. 


THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  SOLD.  15 


While  the  Necklace  lay  in  stucco  effigy,  and  the  stones  of 
it  were  still  '  circulating  in  Commerce/  Du  Barry's  was  the 
neck  it  was  meant  for.  Unhappily,  as  all  dogs,  male  and  fe- 
male, have  but  their  day,  her  day  is  done  ;  and  now  (so  busy 
has  Death  been)  she  sits  retired,  on  mere  half  pay,  without 
prospects,  at  Saint-Cyr.  A  generous  France  will  buy  no  more 
neck-oi'iiaments  for  her : — O  Heaven  !  the  Guillotine-axe  is 
already  forging  (North,  in  Swedish  Dalecarlia,  by  sledge-ham- 
mers and  fire  ;  South  too,  by  taxes  and  tallies)  that  will  shear 
her  neck  in  twain  ! 

But,  indeed,  what  of  Du  Barry  ?  A  foul  worm  ;  hatched 
by  royal  heat,  on  foul  composts,  into  a  flaunting  butterfly  ; 
now  diswinged,  and  again  a  worm  !  Are  there  not  Kings' 
Daughters  and  Kings'  Consorts ;  is  not  Decoration  the  first 
wish  of  a  female  heart, — often  also,  if  such  heart  is  empty, 
the  last  ?  The  Portuguese  Ambassador  is  here,  and  his  rigor- 
ous Pombal  is  no  longer  Minister  :  there  is  an  Infanta  in  Por- 
tugal, purposing  by  Heaven's  blessing  to  wed. — Singular  !  the 
Portuguese  Ambassador,  though  without  fear  of  Pombal, 
praises,  but  will  not  purchase. 

Or  why  not  our  own  loveliest  Marie-Antoinette,  once  Dau- 
phiness  only  ;  now  every  inch  a  Queen  :  what  neck  in  the  whole 
Earth  would  it  beseem  better  ?  It  is  fit  only  for  her.  — Alas, 
Boehmer  !  King  Louis  has  an  eye  for  diamonds  ;  but  he  too 
is  without  overplus  of  money  :  his  high  Queen  herself  answers 
queenlike,  "We  have  more  need  of  Seventy-fours  than  of 
Necklaces."  Laudatur  et  alget  ! — Not  without  a  qualmish  feel- 
ing, we  apply  next  to  the  Queen  and  King  of  the  Two  Sicilies. 1 
In  vain,  O  Boehmer !  In  crowned  heads  there  is  no  hope  for 
thee.  Not  a  crowned  head  of  them  can  spare  the  eighty  thou- 
sand pounds.  The  age  of  Chivalry  is  gone,  and  that  of  Bank- 
ruptcy is  come.  A  dull,  deep,  presaging  movement  rocks  all 
thrones  :  Bankruptcy  is  beating  down  the  gate,  and  no  Chan- 
cellor can  longer  barricade  her  out.  She  will  enter  ;  and  the 
shoreless  fire -lava  of  Democracy  is  at  her  back !  Well  may 
Kings,  a  second  time,  c  sit  still  with  awful  eye,'  and  think  of 
far  other  things  than  Necklaces. 

1  See  Mewoires  de  Campari,  ii.  1-26. 


1$  THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 

Thus  for  poor  Boehmer  are  the  mournfullest  days  and  nights 
appointed  ;  and  this  high-promising  year  (1780,  as  we  la- 
boriously guess  and  gather)  stands  blacker  than  all  others  in 
Lis  calendar.  In  vain  shall  he,  on  his  sleepless  pillow,  more 
and  more  desperately  revolve  the  problem  ;  it  is  a  problem  of 
the  insoluble  sort,  a  true  'irreducible  case  of  Cardan  :'  the 
Diamond  Necklace  will  not  sell. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AFFINITIES  :  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS. 

Nevertheless,  a  man's  little  Work  lies  not  isolated,  stranded ; 
a  whole  busy  World,  a  whole  native -element  of  mysterious 
never-resting  Force,  environs  it  ;  will  catch  it  up  ;  will  carry 
it  forward,  or  else  backward  :  always,  infallibly,  either  as  liv- 
ing growth,  or  at  worst  as  well-rotted  manure,  the  Thing 
Done  will  come  to  use.  Often,  accordingly,  for  a  man  that 
had  finished  any  little  work,  this  were  the  most  interesting 
question  :  In  such  a  boundless  whirl  of  a  world,  what  hook 
will  it  be,  and  what  hooks,  that  shall  catch  up  this  little  work 
of  mine  ;  and  whirl  it  also, — through  such  a  dance  ?  A  ques- 
tion, we  need  not  say,  which,  in  the  simplest  of  cases,  would 
bring  the  whole  Royal  Society  to  a  nonplus. — Good  Corsican 
Letitia  !  while  thou  nursest  thy  little  Napoleon,  and  he  answers 
thy  mother-smile  with  those  deep  eyes  of  his,  a  world-famous 
French  Revolution,  with  Federations  of  the  Champ  de  Mars, 
and  September  Massacres,  and  Bakers'  Customers  en  queue,  is 
getting  ready :  many  a  Dan  ton  and  Desmoulins  ;  prim-visaged, 
Tartuffe-looking  Robespierre,  as  yet  all  schoolboys  ;  and  Marat 
weeping  bitter  rheum,  as  he  pounds  horsedrugs, — are  prepar- 
ing the  fittest  arena  for  him  ! 

Thus  too,  while  poor  Boehmer  is  busy  with  those  Diamonds 
of  his,  picking  them  'out  of  Commerce,'  and  his  craftsmen 
are  grinding  and  setting  them  ;  a  certain  ecclesiastical  Coad- 
jutor and  Grand  Almoner,  and  prospective  Commendator  and 
Cardinal,  is  in  Austria,  hunting  and  giving  suppers  ;  for  whom 
mainly  it  is  that  Boehmer  and  his  craftsmen  so  employ  them- 


AFFINITIES:  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS. 


17 


selves.  Strange  enough,  once  more  !  The  foolish  Jeweller  at 
Paris,  making  foolish  trinkets  ;  the  foolish  Ambassador  at 
Vienna,  making  blunders  and  debaucheries  :  these  Two,  all  un- 
communicating,  wide  asunder  as  the  Poles,  are  hourly  forg- 
ing for  each  other  the  wonderfullest  hook-and-eye  ;  which  will 
hook  them  together,  one  day, — into  artificial  Siamese-Twins, 
for  the  astonishment  of  mankind. 

Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  is  one  of  those  select  mortals  born 
to  honours,  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards  ;  and,  alas,  also  (as  all 
men  are)  to  troubles  no  less.  Of  his  genesis  and  descent  much 
might  be  said,  by  the  curious  in  such  matters  ;  yet  perhaps, 
if  we  weigh  it  well,  intrinsically  little.  He  can,  by  diligence 
and  faith,  be  traced  back  some  handbreadth  or  two,  some  cen- 
tury or  two  ;  but  after  that,  merges  in  the  mere  *  blood-royal 
of  Brittany  ; '  long,  long  on  this  side  of  the  Northern  Immi- 
grations, he  is  not  so  much  as  to  be  sought  for  ; — and  leaves 
the  whole  space  onwards  from  that,  into  the  bosom  of  Eter- 
nity, a  blank,  marked  only  by  one  point,  the  Fall  of  Man  ! 
However,  and  what  alone  concerns  us,  his  kindred,  in  these 
quite  recent  times,  have  been  much  about  the  Most  Christian 
Majesty  ;  could  there  pick  up  what  was  going.  In  particular, 
they  have  had  a  turn  of  some  continuance  for  Cardinalship 
and  Commendatorship.  Safest  trades  these,  of  the  calm,  do- 
nothing  sort :  in  the  do-something  line,  in  Generalship,  or 
such  like  (witness  poor  Cousin  Soubise,  at  Rosbach  they 
might  not  fare  so  well.  In  any  case,  the  actual  Prince  Louis, 
Coadjutor  at  Strasburg,  while  his  uncle  the  Cardinal- Arch- 

1  Here  is  the  Epigram  they  made  against  him  on  occasion  of  Rosbach 
— in  that  '  Despotism  tempered  by  Epigrams,'  which  France  was  then 
said  to  be  : 

4  Sonbise  dit,  la  lanterne  a  la  main, 
J'ai  beau  cheroher,  oh  diable  est  mon  Armee  V 
Elle  etait  la  pourtant  hier  matin  : 
Me  l'a-t-on  prise,  ou  l'aurais-je  egaree  ? — 

Que  vois-je,  6  ciel !  que  mon  ame  est  ravie! 
Prodige  heureux!  la  voila,  la  voila  !  — 
Ah,  ventrebleu !  qu'est-ce  done  que  cela  ? 
Je  me  trompaiX  e'est  PArni  'e  Ennemie  !  ' 

Lacretelle,  ii.  206. 

2 


IS 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


bishop  has  not  yet  deceased,  and  left  him  his  dignities,  but 
only  fallen  sick,  already  takes  his  place  on  one  grandest  occa- 
sion :  he,  thrice-happy  Coadjutor,  receives  the  fair,  young, 
trembling  Dauphiness,  Marie -Antoinette,  on  her  first  entrance 
into  France  ;  and  can  there,  as  Ceremonial  Fugleman,  with 
fit  bearing  and  semblance  (being  a  tall  man,  of  six-and -thirty), 
do  the  needful.  Of  his  other  performances  up  to  this  date,  a 
refined  History  had  rather  say  nothing. 

In  fact,  if  the  tolerating  mind  will  meditate  it  with  any  sym- 
pathy, what  could  poor  Eohan  perform  ?  Performing  needs 
light,  needs  strength,  and  a  firm  clear  footing  ;  all  of  which 
had  been  denied  him.  Nourished,  from  birth,  with  the 
choicest  physical  spoon-meat,  indeed  ;  yet  also,  with  no  bet- 
ter spiritual  Doctrine  and  Evangel  of  Life  than  a  French 
Court  of  Louis  the  Well-beloved  could  yield  ;  gifted  more- 
over, and  this  too  was  but  a  new  perplexity  for  him,  with 
shrewdness  enough  to  see  through  much,  with  vigour  enough 
to  despise  much  ;  unhappily,  not  with  vigour  enough  to  spurn 
it  from  him,  and  be  forever  enfranchised  of  it, — he  awakes, 
at  man's  stature,  with  man's  wild  desires,  in  a  World  of  the 
merest  incoherent  Lies  and  Delirium  ;  himself  a  nameless  Mass 
of  delirious  Incoherences, — covered  over  at  most,  and  held-in 
a  little,  by  conventional  Politesse,  and  a  Cloak  of  prospective 
Cardinal's  Plush.  Are  not  intrigues,  might  Rohan  say,  the 
industry  of  this  our  Universe  ;  nay  is  not  the  Universe  itself, 
at  bottom,  properly  an  intrigue  ?  A  Most  Christian  Majesty, 
in  the  Parc-aux-cerfs  ;  he,  thou  seest,  is  the  god  of  this  lower 
world  ;  in  the  fight  of  Life,  our  war-banner  and  celestial  En- 
touto-nika  is  a  Strumpet'^  Petticoat :  these  are  thy  gods,  O 
France  !  — What,  in  such  singular  circumstances,  could  poor 
Eohan 's  creed  and  world-theory  be,  that  he  should  *  perform  ' 
thereby  ?  Atheism  ?  Alas,  -no  ;  not  even  Atheism  :  only  Machi- 
avelism  ;  and  the  indestructible  faith  that '  ginger  is  hot  in  the 
mouth.'  Get  ever  new  and  better  ginger,  therefore  ;  chew  it 
ever  the  more  diligently  :  'tis  all  thou  hast  to  look  to,  and  that 
only  for  a  day. 

Ginger  enough,  poor  Louis  de  Rohan  :  too  much  of  ginger  ! 
Whatsoever  of  it,  for  the  five  senses,  money,  or  money  s  worth, 


AFFINITIES:  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS.  19  " 

or  backstairs  diplomacy,  can  buy  ;  nay  for  the  sixth  sense  too, 
the  far  spicier  ginger,  Antecedence  of  thy  fellow-creatures, — 
merited,  at  least,  by  infinitely  finer  housing  than  theirs.  Coad- 
jutor of  Strasburg,  Archbishop  of  Strasburg,  Grand  Almoner  of 
France,  Commander  of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Cardinal, 
Commendator  of  St.  Wast  d'Arras  (one  of  the  fattest  benefices 
here  below) :  all  these  shall  be  housings  for  Monseigneur  :  to 
all  these  shall  his  Jesuit  Nursing-mother,  our  vulpine  Abbe 
Georgel,  through  fair  court-weather  and  through  foul,  triumph- 
antly bear  him  ;  and  wrap  him  with  them,  fat,  somnolent 
Nursling  as  he  is. — By  the  way,  a  most  assiduous,  ever-wake- 
ful Abbe  is  this  Georgel ;  and  wholly  Monseigneur s.  He  has 
scouts  dim-flying,  far  out,  in  the  great  deep  of  the  world's 
business  ;  has  spider-threads  that  overnet  the  whole  world ; 
himself  sits  in  the  centre,  ready  to  run.  In  vain  shall  King 
and  Queen  combine  against  Monseigneur  :  "  I  was  at  M.  de 
Maurepas'  pillow  before  six," — persuasively  wagging  my  sleek 
coif,  and  the  sleek  reynard-head  under  it ;  I  managed  it  all  for 
him.  Here  too,  on  occasion  of  Keynard  Georgel,  we  could 
not  but  reflect  what  a  singular  species  of  creature  your  Jesuit 
must  have  been.  Outwardly,  you  would  say,  a  man  ;  the 
smooth  semblance  of  a  man  :  inwardly,  to  the  centre,  filled 
with  stone  !  Yet  in  all  breathing  things,  even  in  stone  Jesuits 
are  inscrutable  sympathies  :  how  else  does  a  Reynard  Abbe  so 
loyally  give  himself,  soul  and  body,  to  a  somnolent  Monseign- 
eur ; — how  else  does  the  poor  Tit,  to  the  neglect  of  its  own 
eggs  and  interests,  nurse  up  a  huge  lumbering  Cuckoo  ;  and 
think  its  pains  all  paid,  if  the  sootbrown  Stupidity  will  merely 
grow  bigger  and  bigger  ! — Enough,  by  Jesuitic  or  other 
means,  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  shall  be  passively  kneaded  and 
baked  into  Commendator  of  St.  Wast  and  much  else;  and 
truly  such  a  Commendator  as  hardly,  since  King  Thierri,  first 
of  the  Faineans,  founded  that  Establishment,  has  played  his 
part  there. 

Such,  however,  have  Nature  and  Art  combined  together  to 
make  Prince  Louis.  A  figure  thrice-clothed  with  honours  ; 
with  plush,  and  civic  and  ecclesiastic  garniture  of  all  kinds ; 
but  in  itself  little  other  than  an  amorphous  congeries  of  con* 


20 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


tradictions,  somnolence  and  violence,  foul  passions  and  foul 
habits.  It  is  by  his  plush  cloaks  and  wrappages  mainly,  as 
above  hinted,  that  such  a  figure  sticks  together  ;  what  we  call 
'  coheres,'  in  any  measure  ;  were  it  not  for  these,  he  would 
flow  out  boundlessly  on  all  sides.  Conceive  him  farther,  with 
a  kind  of  radical  vigour  and  fire,  for  he  can  see  clearly  at 
times,  and  speak  fiercely  ;  yet  left  in  this  way  to  stagnate  and 
ferment,  and  lie  overlaid  with  such  floods  of  fat  material : 
have  we  not  a  true  image  of  the  shamefullest  Mud-volcano, 
gurgling  and  sluttishly  simmering,  amid  continual  steamy  in- 
distinctness,— except  as  was  hinted,  in  ^'mdi-gasts  ;  with  oc- 
casional terrifico-absurd  mud -explosions  ! 

This,  garnish  it  and  fringe  it  never  so  handsomely,  is,  alas, 
the  intrinsic  character  of  Prince  Louis.  A  shameful  spectacle  : 
such,  however,  as  the  world,  has  beheld  many  times ;  as  it 
were  to  be  wished,  but  is  not  yet  to  be  hoped,  the  world 
might  behold  no  more.  Nay,  are  not  all  possible  delirious 
incoherences,  outward  and  inward,  summed  up,  for  poor 
Rohan,  in  this  one  incrediblest  incoherence,  that  he,  Prince 
Louis  de  Rohan,  is  named  Priest,  Cardinal  of  the  Church  ? 
A  debauched,  merely  libidinous  mortal,  lying  there  quite 
helpless,  dissolute  (as  we  well  say)  ;  whom  to  see  Church 
Cardinal,  symbolical  Hinge  or  main  Corner  of  the  Invisible 
Holy  in  this  World,  an  Inhabitant  of  Saturn  might  split  with 
laughing, — if  he  did  not  rather  swoon  with  pity  and  horror  ! 

Prince  Louis,  as  ceremonial  fugleman  at  Strasburg,  might 
have  hoped  to  make  some  way  with  the  fair  young  Dauphin- 
ess  ;  but  seems  not  to  have  made  any.  Perhaps,  in  those 
great  days,  so  trying  for  a  fifteen-years  Bride  and  Dauphiness, 
the  fair  Antoinette  was  too  preoccupied  :  perhaps,  in  the  very 
face  and  looks  of  Prospective-Cardinal  Prince  Louis,  her  fair 
young  soul  read,  all  unconsciously,  an  incoherent  Boue-ism, 
bottomless  Mud-volcanoism  ;  from  which  she  by  instinct 
rather  recoiled. 

However,  as  above  hinted,  he  is  now  gone,  in  these  years, 
on  Embassy  to  Vienna  :  with  '  four-and-twenty  pages '  (if  our 
remembrance  of  Abbe  Georgel  serve)  '  of  noble  birth/  all  in 


AFFINITIES:  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS.  21 


scarlet  breeches  ;  and  such  a  retinue  and  parade  as  drowns 
even  his  fat  revenue  in  perennial  debt.  Above  all  things,  his 
Jesuit  Familiar  is  with  him.  For  so  eve^where  they  must 
manage :  Eminence  Rohan  is  the  cloak,  Jesuit  Georgel  the 
man  or  automaton  within  it.  Rohan,  indeed,  sees  Poland 
a-partitioning  ;  or  rather  Georgel,  with  his  £  masked  Austrian  ' 
traitor  £  on  the  ramparts,'  sees  it  for  him :  but  what  can 
he  do  ?  He  exhibits  his  four-and-twenty  scarlet  pages, — who, 
we  find,  '  smuggle '  to  quite  unconscionable  lengths  ;  rides 
through  a  Catholic  procession,  Prospective-Cardinal  though 
he  be,  because  it  is  too  long  and  keeps  him  from  an  appoint- 
ment ;  hunts,  gallants ;  gives  suppers,  Sardanapalus-wise,  the 
finest  ever  seen  in  Vienna.  Abbe  Georgel,  as  we  fancy  it  was, 
writes  a  Despatch  in  his  name  ( every  fortnight ;  ■ — mentions 
in  one  of  these,  that  '  Maria  Theresa  stands,  indeed,  with  the 
'  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  weeping  for  the  woes  of  Poland  ; 
1  but  with  the  sword  in  the  other  hand,  ready  to  cut  Poland 
6  in  sections,  and  take  her  share.' 1  Untimely  joke  ;  which 
proved  to  Prince  Louis  the  root  of  unspeakable  chagrins ! 
For  Minister  D'Aiguillon  (much  against  his  duty)  communi- 
cates the  Letter  to  King  Louis  ;  Louis  to  Du  Barry,  to  season 
her  souper,  and  laughs  over  it :  the  thing  becomes  a  court- 
joke  ;  the  filially-pious  Dauphiness  hears  it,  and  remembers 
it.  Accounts  go,  moreover,  that  Rohan  spake  censuringly  of 
the  Dauphiness  to  her  Mother  :  this  probably  is  but  hearsay 
an(J  false  ;  the  devout  Maria  Theresa  disliked  him,  and  even 
despised  him,  and  vigorously  laboured  for  his  recall. 

Thus,  in  rosy  sleep  and  somnambulism,  or  awake  only  to 
quaff  the  full  wine  cup  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  his  Mother,  and 

1  Memoiresde  I9 Abbe  Georgel,  ii.  1-220.  Abbe  Georgel,  who  has  given, 
in  the  place  referred  to,  a  long  solemn  Narrative  of  the  Necklace  Busi- 
ness, passes  for  the  grand  authority  on  it :  but  neither  will  he,  strictly 
taken  up,  abide  scrutiny.  He  is  vague  as  may  be  ;  writing  in  what  is 
called  the  '  soaped-pig  '  fashion  :  yet  sometimes  you  do  catch  him,  and 
hold  him.  There  are  hardly  above  three  dates  in  his  whole  Narrative. 
He  mistakes  several  times  ;  perhaps,  once  or  twice,  wilfully  misrepre- 
sents, a  little.  The  main  incident  of  the  business  is  misdated  by  him, 
almost  a  twelve-month.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  poor  Abba 
wrote  in  exile  j  and  with  cause  enough  for  prepossessions  and  hostilities. 


22 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


again  sleep  and  somnambulate,  does  the  Prospective-Cardinal 
and  Commendator  pass  his  days.  Unhappy  man !  This  is 
not  a  world  which  was  made  in  sleep  ;  which  it  is  safe  to 
sleep  and  somnambulate  in.  In  that  6  loud-roaring  Loom  of 
Time '  (where  above  nine  hundred  millions  of  hungry  Men, 
for  one  item,  restlessly  weave  and  work),  so  many  threads  fly 
humming  from  their  c  eternal  spindles  ; '  and  swift  invisible 
shuttles,  far  darting,  to  the  Ends  of  the  World, — complex 
enough  !  At  this  hour,  a  miserable  Boehmer  in  Paris,  whom 
thou  wottest  not  of,  is  spinning,  of  diamonds  and  gold,  a  pal- 
try thrum  that  will  go  nigh  to  strangle  the  life  out  of  thee. 

Meanwhile  Louis  the  Well-beloved  has  left,  forever,  his 
Parc-aux-cerfs  ;  and,  amid  the  scarce-suppressed  hootings  of 
the  world,  taken  up  his  last  lodging  at  St.  Denis.  Feeling 
that  it  was  all  over  (for  the  small-pox  has  the  victory,  and 
even  Du  Barry  is  off),  he,  as  the  Abbe  Georgel  records,  '  made 
the  amende  honorable  to  God  5  (these  are  his  Reverence's  own 
words)  ;  had  a  true  repentance  of  three  days'  standing  ;  and 
so,  continues  the  Abbe,  c  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord.'  Asleep  in 
the  Lord,  Monsieur  l'Abbe  !  If  such  a  mass  of  Laziness  and 
Lust  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord,  who,  fanciest  thou,  is  it  that 
falls  asleep — elsewhere  ?  Enough  that  he  did  fall  asleep ; 
that  thick- wrapt  in  the  Blanket  of  the  Night,  under  what 
keeping  we  ask  not,  he  never  through  endless  Time  can,  for 
his  own  or  our  sins,  insult  the  face  of  the  Sun  any  more  ; — 
and  so  now  wre  go  onward,  if  not  to  less  degrees  of  beastli- 
ness, yet  at  least  and  worst,  to  cheering  varieties  of  it. 

Louis  XVI.  therefore  reigns  (and,  under  the  Sieur  Gamain, 
makes  locks)  ;  his  fair  Dauphiness  has  become  a  Queen. 
Eminence  Rohan  is  home  from  Vienna  ;  to  condole  and  con- 
gratulate. He  bears  a  letter  from  Maria  Theresa  ;  hopes  the 
Queen  will  not  forget  old  Ceremonial  Fuglemen,  and  friends 
of  the  Dauphiness.  Heaven  and  Earth  !  The  Dauphiness 
Queen  will  not  see  him  ;  orders  the  Letter  to  be  sent  her. 
The  King  himself  signifies  briefly  that  he  6  will  be  asked  for 
when  wanted ! ' 

Alas !  at  Court,  our  motion  is  the  delicatest,  unsurest 


AFFINITIES:  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS. 


23 


We  go  spinning,  as  it  were,  on  teetotums,  by  the  edges  of 
bottomless  deeps.  Rest  is  fall ;  so  is  one  false  whirl.  A  mo- 
ment ago,  Eminence  Rohan  seemed  waltzing  with  the  best : 
but,  behold,  his  teetotum  has  carried  him  over ;  there  is  an 
inversion  of  the  centre  of  gravity  ;  and  so  now,  heels  upper- 
most, velocity  increasing  as  the  time,  space  as  the  square  of 
the  time, — he  rushes. 

On  a  man  of  poor  Rohan's  somnolence  and  violence,  the 
sympathising  mind  can  estimate  what  the  effect  was.  Con- 
sternation, stupefaction,  the  total  jumble  of  blood,  brains  and 
nervous  spirits ;  in  ear  and  heart,  only  universal  hubbub 
and  louder  and  louder  singing  of  the  agitated  air.  A  fall 
comparable  to  that  of  Satan  !  Men  have,  indeed,  been  driven 
from  Court  ;  and  borne  it,  according  to  ability.  Choiseul, 
in  these  very  years,  retired  Parthianlike,  with  a  smile  or 
scowl ;  and  drew  half  the  Court  host  along  with  him.  Our 
Wolsey,  though  once  an  Ego  et  Rex  mens,  could  journey,  it  is 
said  without  straight-waistcoat,  to  his  monastery  ;  and  there 
telling  beads,  look  forward  to  a  still  longer  journey.  The 
melodious,  too  soft-strung  Racine,  when  his  King  turned  his 
back  on  him,  emitted  one  meek:  wail,  and  submissively — died. 
But  the  case  of  Coadjutor  de  Rohan  differed  from  all  these. 
No  loyalty  was  in  him,  that  he  should  die  ;  no  self-help,  that 
he  should  live  ;  no  faith,  that  he  should  tell  beads.  His  is  a 
mud-volcanic  character  ;  incoherent,  mad,  from  the  very  foun- 
dation of  it.  Think  too,  that  his  Courtiership  (for  how  could 
any  nobleness  enter  there  ?)  was  properly  a  gambling  specu- 
lation :  the  loss  of  his  trump  Queen  of  Hearts  can  bring 
nothing  but  fiat  unredeemed  despair.  No  other  game  has 
he,  in  this  world, — or  in  the  next.  And  then  the  exasper- 
ating Why  f  The  How  came  it  ?  For  that  Rohanic,  or  George- 
lie,  sprightliness  of  the  c  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  and  sword 
in  the  other,'  if  indeed  that  could  have  caused  it  all,  has  quite 
escaped  him.  In  the  name  of  Friar  Bacon's  Head,  what  was, 
it?  -Imagination,  with  Desperation  to  drive  her,  may  fly  to 
all  points  of  Space  ; — and  returns  with  wearied  wings,  and 
no  tidings.  Behold  me  here ;  this,  which  is  the  first  grancl 
certainty  for  man  in  general,  is  the  first  an<J  hst  and  only  on^ 


24 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


for  poor  Eohan.  And  then  his  Here  !  Alas,  looking  upwards, 
he  can  eye,  from  his  burning  marl,  the  azure  realms,  once 
his  ;  and  Cousin  Countess  de  Marsan,  and  so  many  Riche- 
lieus,  Polignacs,  and  other  happy  angels,  male  and  female,  all 
blissfully  gyrating  there  ;  while. he —  ! 

Nevertheless  hope,  in  the  human  breast,  though  not  in  the 
diabolic,  springs  eternal.  The  outcast  Rohan  bends  all  his 
thoughts,  faculties,  prayers,  purposes,  to  one  object ;  one  ob- 
ject he  will  attain,  or  go  to  Bedlam.  How  many  ways  he 
tries  ;  what  days  and  nights  of  conjecture,  consultation  ;  what 
written  unpublished  reams  of  correspondence,  protestation, 
backstairs  diplomacy  of  every  rubric !  How  many  suppers 
has  he  eaten  ;  how  many  given, — in  vain  !  It  is  his  morning 
song,  and  his  evening  prayer.  From  innumerable  falls  he 
rises  ;  only  to  fall  again.  Behold  him  even,  with  his  red 
stockings,  at  dusk,  in  the  Garden  of  Trianon  :  he  has  bribed 
the  Concierge  ;  will  see  her  Majesty  in  spite  of  Etiquette  and 
Fate  ;  peradventure,  pitying  his  long  sad  King's-evil,  she  will 
touch  him  and  heal  him.  In  vain, — says  the  Female  Historian, 
Campan.1  The  Chariot  of  Majesty  shoots  rapidly  by,  with 
high-plumed  heads  in  it ;  Eminence  is  known  by  his  red 
stockings,  but  not  looked  at,  only  laughed  at,  and  left  stand- 
ing like  a  Pillar  of  Salt. 

Thus  through  ten  long  years,  of  new  resolve  and  new  de- 
spondency, of  flying  from  Saverne  to  Paris,  and  from  Paris 
to  Saverne,  has  it  lasted  ;  hope  deferred  making  the  heart 
sick.  Reynard  Georgel  and  Cousin  de  Marsan,  by  eloquence, 
by  influence,  and  being  'at  M.  de  Maurepas'  pillow  before 
six/  have  secured  the  Archbishropic,  the  Grand  Almonership  ; 

1  Madame  Campan,  in  her  Narrative,  and  indeed,  in  her  Memoirs 
generally,  does  not  seem  to  intend  falsehood  :  this,  in  the  Business  of 
the  Necklace,  is  saying  a  great  deal.  She  rather,  perhaps,  intends  the 
producing  of  an  impression ;  which  may  have  appeared  to  herself  to  be 
the  right  one.  But,  at  all  events,  she  has,  here  or  elsewhere,  no  notion 
of  historical  rigour,  she  gives  hardly  any  date,  or  the  like  ;  will  tell  the 
same  thing,  in  different  places,  different  ways,  &e.  There  is  a  tradition 
that  Louis  XVIII.  revised  her  Memoires  before  publication.  She  re- 
quires to  be  read  with  scepticism  everywhere,  but  yields  something  in 
that  way.. 


AFFINITIES:  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS.  25 


the  Cardinalship  (by  the  medium  of  Poland)  ;  and,  lastly,  to 
tinker  many  rents,  and  appease  the  Jews,  that  fattest  Com- 
mendatorship,  founded  by  King  Thierri  the  Do-nothing — per- 
haps with  a  view  to  such  cases.  All  good  !  languidly  croaks 
Rohan  ;  yet  all  not  the  one  thing  needful ;  alas,  the  Queen'f 
eyes  do  not  yet  shine  on  me. 

Abbe  Georgel  admits,  in  his  own  polite  diplomatic  way, 
that  the  Mud-volcano  was  much  agitated  by  these  trials  ;  and 
in  time  quite  changed.  Monseigneur  deviated  into  cabalistic 
courses,  after  elixirs,  philtres,  and  the  philosopher's  stone  ; 
that  is,  the  volcanic  steam  grew  thicker  and  heavier  :  at  last 
by  Cagliostro's  magic  (for  Cagliostro  and  the  Cardinal  by 
elective  affinity  must  meet),  it  sank  into  the  opacity  of  perfect 
London  fog  !  So  too,  if  Monseigneur  grew  choleric,  wrapped 
himself  up  in  reserve,  spoke  roughly  to  his  domestics  and  de- 
pendents,— were  not  the  terrifico-absurd  mud-explosions  be- 
coming more  frequent  ?  Alas,  what  wonder  ?  Some  nine- 
and-forty  winters  have  now  fled  over  his  Eminence  (for  it  is 
1783),  and  his  beard  falls  white  to  the  shaver ;  but  age  for 
him  brings  no  benefit  of  experience.'  He  is  possessed  by  a 
fixed-idea  ! 

Foolish  Eminence  !  is  the  Earth  grown  all  barren  and  of  a 
snuff  colour,  because  one  pair  of  eyes  in  it  look  on  thee  as- 
kance ?  Surely  thou  hast  thy  Body  there  yet :  and  what  of  sou] 
might  from  the  first  reside  in  it.  Nay,  a  warm,  snug  Body, 
with  not  only  five  senses  (sound  still,  in  spite  of  much  tear 
and  wear),  but  most  eminent  clothing,  besides  ;— clothed  with 
authority  over  much,  with  red  Cardinal's  cloak,  red  Cardinal's 
hat ;  with  Commendatorship,  Grand-Almonership,  so  kind 
have  thy  Fripiers  been  ;  with  dignities  and  dominions  too  tedi- 
ous to  name.  The  stars  rise  nightly,  with  tidings  (for  thee 
too,  if  thou  wilt  listen)  from  the  infinite  Blue  ;  Sun  and  Moon 
bring  vicissitudes  of  season ;  dressing  green,  with  flower-bor- 
derings,  and  cloth  of  gold,  this  ancient  ever-young  Earth  of 
ours,  and  filling  her  breasts  with  all-nourishing  mother's  milk. 
Wilt  thou  work  ?  The  whole  Encyclopedia  (not  Diderot's  only, 
but  the  Almighty's)  is  there  for  thee  to  spread  thy  broad  fac- 
ulty upon.    Or,  if  thou  have  no  faculty,  no  Sense,  hast  thou 


26 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


not,  as  already  suggested,  Senses,  to  the  number  of  five?  What 
victuals  thou  wishest,  command  ;  with  what  wine  savoureth 
thee,  be  filled.  Already  thou  art  a  false  lascivious  Priest ;  with 
revenues  of,  say,  a  quarter  of  a  million  sterling  ;  and  no  mind 
to  mend.  Eat  foolish  Eminence  ;  eat  with  voracity, — leaving 
the  shot  till  afterwards  !  In  all  this  the  eyes  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette can  neither  help  thee  nor  hinder. 

And  yet  what  is  the  Cardinal,  dissolute  mud-volcano  though 
he  be,  more  foolish  herein,  than  all  Sons  of  Adam  ?  Give  tha 
wisest  of  us  once  a  '  fixed-idea,' — which,  though  a  temporary 
madness,  who  has  not  had  ? — and  see  where  his  wisdom  is  ! 
The  Chamois-hunter  serves  his  doomed  seven  years  in  the 
Quicksilver  Mines  ;  returns  salivated  to  the  marrow  of  the 
backbone  ;  and  next  morning — goes  forth  to  hunt  again.  Be- 
hold Cardalion  King  of  Urinals ;  with  a  woful  ballad  to  his 
mistress'  eyebrow !  He  blows  out,  Werter-wise,  his  foolish 
existence,  because  she  will  not  have  it  to  keep  ; — heeds  not 
that  there  are  some  five  hundred  millions  of  other  mistresses 
in  this  noble  Planet ;  most  likely  much  such  as  she.  O  fool- 
ish men  !  They  sell  their  Inheritance  (as  their  Mother  did 
hers),  though  it  is  Paradise,  for  a  crotchet :  will  they  not,  in 
every  age,  dare  not  only  grapeshot  and  gallows-ropes,  but 
Hell-fire  itself,  for  better  sauce  to  their  victuals  ?  My  friends, 
beware  of  fixed-ideas. 

Here,  accordingly,  is  poor  Boehmer  with  one  in  his  head 
too  !  He  has  been  hawking  his  '  irreducible  case  of  Cardan/ 
that  Necklace  of  his,  these  three  long  years,  through  all  Pal- 
aces and  Ambassadors'  Hotels,  over  the  old  1  nine  Kingdoms,' 
or  more  of  them  than  there  now  are  :  searching,  sifting  Earth, 
Sea  and  Air,  for  a  customer.  To  take  his  Necklace  in  pieces  ; 
and  so,  losing  only  his  manual  labour  and  expected  glory, 
dissolve  his  fixed-idea,  and  fixed  diamonds,  into  current  ones  : 
this  were  simply  casting  out  the  Devil — from  himself  ;  a  mira- 
cle, and  perhaps  more  !  For  he  too  has  a  Devil,  or  Devils  : 
one  mad  object  that  he  strives  at ;  that  he  too  will  attain,  or 
go  to  Bedlam.  Creditors,  snarling,  hound  him  on  from  with- 
out ;  mocked  Hopes,  lost  Labours,  bearbait  him  from  within  : 
to  these  torments  his  fixed  idea  keeps  him  chained.    In  six- 


THE  ARTIST. 


27 


and-thirty  weary  revolutions  of  the  Moon,  was  it  wonderful 
the  man's  brain  had  got  dried  a  little  ? 

Behold,  one  day,  being  Court- Jeweller,  he  too  bursts,  almost 
as  Rohan  had  done,  into  the  Queen's  retirement,  or  apartment ; 
flings  himself  (as  Campan  again  has  recorded)  at  her  Majesty's 
feet ;  and  there,  with  clasped  uplifted  hands,  in  passionate 
nasal-gutturals,  with  streaming  tears  and  loud  sobs,  entreats 
her  to  do  one  of  two  things  :  Either  to  buy  his  Necklace  ;  or 
else  graciously  to  vouchsafe  him  her  royal  permission  to  drown 
himself  in  the  River  Seine.  Her  Majesty,  pitying  the  distracted 
bewildered  state  of  the  man,  calmly  points  out  the  plain  third 
course  :  Depecez  votre  Collier,  Take  your  Necklace  in  pieces  ; — 
adding  withal,  in  a  tone  of  queenly  rebuke,  that  if  he  would 
drown  himself,  he  at  all  times  could,  without  her  furtherance. 

Ah,  had  he  drowned  himself,  with  the  Necklace  in  his 
pocket ;  and  Cardinal  Commendator  at  his  skirts  !  Kings, 
above  all,  beautiful  Queens,  as  far-radiant  Symbols  on  the 
pinnacles  of  the  world,  are  so  exposed  to  madmen.  Should 
these  two  fixed-ideas  that  beset  this  beautifullest  Queen,  and 
almost  burst  through  her  Palace-walls,  one  day  unite,  and 
this  not  to  jump  into  the  River  Seine  : — what  maddest  result 
may  be  looked  for  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  ARTIST. 

If  the  reader  has  hitherto,  in  our  top  figurative  language, 
seen  only  the  figurative  hook  and  the  figurative  eye,  which 
Boehmer  and  Rohan,  far  apart,  were  respectively  fashioning 
for  each  other,  he  shall  now  see  the  cunning  Milliner  (an 
actual,  unmetaphorical  Milliner)  by  whom  these  two  indi- 
viduals, with  their  two  implements,  are  brought  in  contact, 
and  hooked  together  into  stupendous  artificial  Siamese-Twins  ; 
— after  which  the  whole  nodus  and  solution  will  naturally 
combine  and  unfold  itself. 

Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi,  by  courtesy  or  otherwise,  Countess 
styled  also  of  Valois,  and  even  of  France,  has  now,  in  this 


2S 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


year  of  Grace  1783,  known  the  world  for  some  seven-and< 
twenty  summers  ;  and  had  crooks  in  her  lot.  She  boasts 
herself  descended,  by  what  is  called  natural  generation,  from 
the  Blood-Royal  of  France :  Henri  Second,  before  that  fatal 
tourney-lance  entered  his  right  eye  and  ended  him,  appears 
to  have  had,  successively  or  simultaneously,  four — unmen- 
tionable women  :  and  so,  in  vice  of  the  third  of  these,  came 
a  certain  Henri  de  Saint-Eemi  into  this  world  ;  and,  as  High 
and  Puissant  Lord,  ate  his  victuals  and  spent  his  days,  on  an 
allotted  domain  of  Fontette,  near  Bar-sur-Aube,  in  Cham- 
pagne. Of  High  and  Puissant  Lords,  at  this  Fontette,  six 
other  generations  followed ;  and  thus  ultimately,  in  a  space 
of  some  two  centuries,— succeeded  in  realising  this  brisk 
little  Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi,  here  in  question.  But,  ah,  what 
a  falling-off!  The  Royal  Family  of  France  has  wellnigh 
forgotten  its  left-hand  collaterals  :  the  last  High  and  Puissant 
Lord  (much  clipt  by  his  predecessors),  falling  into  drink,  and 
left  by  a  scandalous  world  to  drink  his  pitcher  dry,  had  to 
alienate  by  degrees  his  whole  worldly  Possessions,  down 
almost  to  the  indispensable,  or  inexpressibles  ;  and  die  at 
last  in  the  Paris  Hotel-Dieu  ;  glad  that  it  was  not  on  the 
street.  So  that  he  has,  indeed,  given  a  sort  of  bastard  royal 
life  to  little  Jeanne,  and  her  little  brother  ;  but  not  the 
smallest  earthly  provender  to  keep  it  in.  The  mother,  in 
her  extremity,  forms  the  wonderfullest  connexions  ;  and  little 
Jeanne,  and  her  little  brother,  go  out  into  the  highways  to 
beg. 1 

A  charitable  Countess  Boulainvilliers,  struck  with  the 
little  bright-eyed  tatterdemalion  from  the  carriage-window, 
picks  her  up  ;  has  her  scoured,  clothed  ;  and  rears  her,  in 
her  fluctuating  miscellaneous  way,  to  be,  about  the  age  of 
twenty,  a  nondescript  of  Mantuamaker,  Soubrette,  Court-beg- 
gar, Fine-lady,  Abigail,  and  Scion-of -Royalty.  Sad  combi- 
nation of  trades !  The  Court,  after  infinite  soliciting,  puts 
one  off  with  a  hungry  dole  of  little  more  than  thirty  pounds 
a-year.  Nay,  the  audacious  Count  Boulainvilliers  dares, 
with  what  purposes  he  knows  best,  to  offer  some  suspicious 
1  Vie  de  Jeanm  Comtesse  de  Lamotte  (by  Herself),  vol.  i. 


THE  ARTIST. 


23 


presents !  1  Whereupon  his  good  Countess,  especially  as 
Mantuamaking  languishes,  thinks  it  could  not  but  be  fit  to  go 
down  to  Bar-sur-Aube  ;  and  there  see  whether  no  fractions 
of  that  alienated  Fontette  Property,  held  perhaps  on  insecure 
tenure,  may,  by  terror  or  cunning,  be  recoverable.  Burning 
her  paper  patterns,  pocketing  her  pension  till  more  come, 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  sallies  out  thither,  in  her  twenty-third 
year. 

Nourished  in  this  singular  way,  alternating  between  saloon 
and  kitchen-table,  with  the  loftiest  of  pretensions,  meanest  of 
possessions,  our  poor  High  and  Puissant  Mantuamaker  has 
realised  for  herself  a  *  face  not  beautiful,  yet  with  a  certain 
piquancy  ;  '  dark  hair,  blue  eyes  ;  and  a  character,  which  the 
present  Writer,  a  determined  student  of  human  nature,  de- 
clares to  be  undecipherable.  Let  the  Psychologists  try  it ! 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Kemi  de  Valois  de  France  actually  lived, 
and  worked,  and  wras :  she  has  even  published,  at  various 
times,  three  considerable  Volumes  of  Autobiography,  with 
loose  Leaves  (in  Courts  of  Justice)  of  unknown  number ;  2 
wherein  he  that  runs  may  read, — but  not  understand. 
Strange  Volumes  !  more  like  the  screeching  of  distracted 
night-birds  (suddenly  disturbed  by  the  torch  of  Police-Fowl- 

1  He  was  of  Hebrew  descent :  grandson  of  the  renowned  Jew  Bernard, 
whom  Louis  XV.,  and  even  Louis  XIV.,  used  to  4  walk  within  the  Royal 
Garden,'  when  they  wanted  him  to  lend  them  money.  See  Souvenirs 
du  Due  de  Lens;  Memoires  de  Dados,  &c. 

2  Four  Memoires  pour  by  her,  in  this  Affaire  du  Collier  ;  like  '  Law- 
yers' tongues  turned  inside  out !  '  Afterwards  One  Volume,  Memoires 
Justifi:atifs  de  la  Comtesse  de,  &c.  (London,  1788)  ;  with  Appendix  of 

4  Documents '  so  called.  This  has  also  been  translated  into  a  kind  of 
English.  Then  Two  Volumes,  as  quoted  above  :  Vie  de  Jeanne  de,  &c; 
printed  in  London,  — by  way  of  extorting  money  from  Paris.  This 
latter  Lying  Autobiography  of  Lamotte  was  bought-up  by  French  per- 
sons in  authority.    It  was  the  burning  of  this  Editio  Princeps  in  the 

5  vres  Potteries  on  the  30th  of  May  1792,  which  raised  such  a  smoke, 
that  the  Legislative  Assembly  took  alarm  ;  and  had  an  investigation 
about  it,  and  considerable  examining  of  Potters,  &c*,  till  the  truth  came 
out.  Copies  of  the  Book  were  speedily  reprinted  after  the  Tenth  of 
August.  It  is  in  English  too  ;  and,  except  in  the  Necklace  part,  is  not 
so  entirely  distracted  as  the  former. 


30 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


ers),  than  the  articulate  utterance  of  a  rational  unfeathered 
biped.  Cheerfully  admitting  these  statements  to  be  all  lies  ; 
we  ask,  How  any  mortal  could,  or  should,  so  lie  ? 

The  Psychologists,  however,  commit  one  sore  mistake  ; 
•  that  of  searching,  in  every  character  named  human,  for  some- 
thing like  a  conscience.  Being  mere  contemplative  recluses, 
for  most  part,  and  feeling  that  Morality  is  the  heart  of  Life, 
they  judge  that  with  all  the  world  it  is  so.  Nevertheless,  as 
practical  men  are  aware,  Life  can  go  on  in  excellent  vigour, 
without  crotchet  of  that  kind.  What  is  the  essence  of  Life  ? 
Volition  ?  Go  deeper  down,  you  find  a  much  more  universal 
root  and  characteristic  :  Digestion.  "While  Digestion  lasts, 
Life  cannot,  in  philosophical  language,  be  said  to  be  extinct : 
and  Digestion  will  give  rise  to  Volitions  enough  ;  at  any  rate, 
to  Desires  and  attempts,  which  may  pass  for  such.  He  who 
looks  neither  before  nor  after,  any  farther  than  the  Larder  and 
Stateroom,  which  latter  is  properly  the  finest  compartment  of 
the  Larder,  will  need  no  World-theory,  Creed  as  it  is  called, 
or  Scheme  of  Duties  ;  lightly  leaving  the  world  to  wag  as  it 
likes  with  any  theory  or  none,  his  grand  object  is  a  theory 
and  practice  of  ways  and  means.  Not  goodness  or  badness  is 
the  type  of  him  :  only  shiftiness  or  shiftlessness. 

And  now,  disburdened  of  this  obstruction,  let  the  Psychol- 
ogists consider  it  under  a  bolder  view.  Consider  the  brisk 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi  de  Saint-Shifty  as  a  Spark  of  vehe- 
ment Life,  not  developed  into  Will  of  any  kind,  yet  fully  into 
Desires  of  all  kinds,  and  cast  into  such  a  Life-element  as  we 
have  seen.  Vanity  and  Hunger  ;  a  Princess  of  the  Blood, 
yet  whose  father  had  sold  his  inexpressibles ;  uncertain 
whether  fosterdaughter  of  a  fond  Countess,  with  hopes  sky- 
high,  or  supernumerary  Soubrette  ;  with  not  enough  of  man- 
tuamaking  :  in  a  word,  Gig  inanity  disgigged  ;  one  of  the  sad- 
dest, pitiable,  unpitied  predicaments  of  man  !  She  is  of  that 
light  unreflecting  class,  of  that  light  unreflecting  sex  variam 
semper  et  mutabile.  And  then  her  Fine-ladyism  though  a 
purseless  one :  capricious,  coquettish,  and  with  all  the  finer 
sensibilities  of  the  heart ;  now  in  the  rackets,  now  in  the 
sullens  ;  vivid  in  contradictory  resolves ;  laughing,  weeping 


THE  ARTIST. 


31 


without  reason, — though  these  acts  are  said  to  be  signs  of 
reason.  Consider  too,  how  she  has  had  to  work  her  way, 
all  along,  by  flattery  and  cajolery  ;  wheedling,  eavesdropping, 
namby-pambying  :  how  she  needs  wages,  and  knows  no  other 
productive  trades.  Thought  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist  in 
her  :  only  Perception  and  Device.  With  an  understanding 
lynx-eyed  for  the  surface  of  things,  but  which  pierces  beyond 
the  surface  of  nothing  ;  every  individual  thing  (for  she  has 
never  seized  the  heart  of  it)  turns  up  a  new  face  to  her  every 
new  day,  and  seems  a  thing  changed,  a  different  thing.  Thus 
sits,  or  rather  vehemently  bobs  and  hovers  her  vehement 
mind,  in  the  middle  of  a  boundless  man3T-dancing  whirlpool 
of  gilt-shreds,  paper-clippings,  and  windfalls,— to  which  the 
revolving  chaos  of  my  Uncle  Toby's  Smoke-jack  was  solidity 
and  regularity.  Reader !  thou  for  thy  sins  must  have  met 
with  such  fair  Irrationals ;  fascinating,  with  their  lively 
eyes,  with  their  quick  snappish  fancies  ;  distinguished  in  the 
higher  circles,  in  Fashion,  even  in  Literature  :  they  hum 
and  buzz  there,  on  graceful  film-wings  ; — searching,  never 
theless,  with  the  wonderfullest  skill,  for  honey  ;  6  tmtamable 
as  flies ! ' 

Wonderfullest  skill  for  honey,  we  say  ;  and,  pray,  mark 
that,  as  regards  this  Countess  de  Saint-Shifty.  Her  instinct- 
of-genius  is  prodigious  ;  her  appetite  fierce.  In  any  foraging 
speculation  of  the  private  kind,  she,  unthinking  as  you  call 
her,  will  be  worth  a  hundred  thinkers.  And  so  of  such  un- 
tamable flies  the  untamablest,  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  is  now 
buzzing  down,  in  the  Bar-sur-Aube  Diligence  ;  to  inspect  the 
honey-jars  of  Fontette  ;  and  see  and  smell  whether  there  be 
any  flaws  in  them. 

Alas,  at  Fontette,  wTe  can,  with  sensibility,  behold  straw- 
roofs  we  were  nursed  under ;  farmers  courteously  offer 
cooked  milk,  and  other  country  messes  :  but  no  soul  will  part 
with  his  Landed  Property,  for  which,  though  cheap,  he  de- 
clares hard  money  was  paid.  The  honey-jars  are  all  close, 
then? — However,  a  certain  Monsieur  de  Lamotte,  a  tall  Gen- 
darme, home  on  furlough  from  Luneville,  is  now  at  Bar  ;  pays 
us  attentions ;  becomes  quite  particular  in  his  attentions, — - 


32 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


for  we  have  a  face  '  with  a  certain  piquancy/  the  liveliest 
glib-snappish  tongue,  the  liveliest  kittenish  manner  (not  yet 
hardened  into  cat-hood),  with  thirty  pounds  a-year,  and 
prospects.  M.  de  Lamotte,  indeed,  is  as  yet  only  a  private 
sentinel ;  but  then  a  private  sentinel  in  the  Gendarmes :  and 
did  not  his  father  die  fighting  £  at  the  head  of  his  company/ 
at  Minden  ?  Why  not  in  virtue  of  our  own  Countesship  dub 
him  too  Count ;  by  left-hand  collateralism,  get  him  advanced  ? 
— Finished  before  the  furlough  is  done  !  The  untamablest  of 
flies  has  again  buzzed  off ;  in  wedlock  with  M.  de  Lamotte  ;  if 
not  to  get  honey,  yet  to  escape  spiders ;  and  so  lies  in  garri- 
son at  Luneville,  amid  coquetries  and  hysterics,  in  Gigmanity 
disgigged, — disconsolate  enough. 

At  the  end  of  four  long  years  (too  long),  M.  de  Lamotte,  or 
call  him  now  Count  de  Lamotte,  sees  good  to  lay  down  his 
fighting-gear  (unhappily  still  only  the  musket),  and  become 
what  is  by  certain  moderns  called  '  a  Civilian  : 1  not  a  Civil- 
Law  Doctor  ;  merely  a  Citizen,  one  who  does  not  live  by 
being  killed.  Alas !  cold  eclipse  has  all  along  hung  over 
the  Lamotte  household.  Countess  Boulainvilliers,  it  is  true, 
writes  in  the  most  feeling  manner ;  but  then  the  Royal 
Finances  are  so  deranged  !  Without  personal  pressing  solici- 
tation, on  the  spot,  no  Court-solicitor,  were  his  pension  the 
meagre st,  can  hope  to  better  it.  At  Luneville  the  sun,  in- 
deed, shines  ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  Life  ;  but  only  an  Un- 
Parisian,  half  or  quarter  Life ;  the  very  tradesmen  grow 
clamorous,  and  no  cunningly  devised  fable,  ready-money 
alone  will  appease  them.  Commandant  Marquis  d'Auti- 
champ  1  agrees  with  Madame  Boulainvilliers  that  a  journey  to 
Paris  were  the  project ;  whither,  also,  he  himself  is  just  going,, 
Perfidious  Commandant  Marquis  !  His  plan  is  seen  through  : 
he  dares  to  presume  to  make  love  to  a  Scion- of-Royalty  ;  or  to 
hint  that  he  could  dare  to  presume  to  do  it !  Whereupon, 
indignant  Count  de  Lamotte,  as  we  said,  throws  up  his  com- 
mission, and  down  his  fire-arms,  without  further  delay.  The 
King  loses  a  tall  private  sentinel  ;  the  World  has  a  new  black- 

'He  is  the  same  Marquis  d'Autichamp  who  was  to  *  relieve  Lyons/ 
and  raise  the  Siege  of  Lyons,  in  Autumn  1793,  but  could  not  do  it. 


WILL   THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  UNITE?  33 


leg :  and  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Lamotte  take  places  in 
the  Diligence  for  Strasburg. 

Good  Fostermother  Boulainvilliers,  however,  is  no  longer  at 
Strasburg  :  she  is  forward  at  the  Archi episcopal  Palace  in  Sa- 
verne ;  on  a  visit  there,  to  his  Eminence  Cardinal  Commendator 
Grand-Almoner  Archbishop  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  !  Thus, 
then,  has  Destiny  at  last  brought  it  about.  Thus,  after  long 
wanderings,  on  paths  so  far  separate,  has  the  time  come,  in 
this  late  year  1783,  when,  of  all  the  nine  hundred  millions  of 
the  Earth's  denizens,  these  preappointed  Two  behold  each 
other ! 

The  foolish  Cardinal,  since  no  sublunary  means,  not  even 
bribing  of  the  Trianon  Concierge,  will  serve,  has  taken  to  the 
superlunary  :  he  is  here,  with  his  fixed-idea  and  volcanic 
vaporosity  darkening,  under  Cagliostro's  management,  into 
thicker  and  thicker  opaque, — of  the  Black- Art  itself.  To 
the  glance  of  hungry  genius,  Cardinal  and  Cagliostro  could 
not  but  have  meaning.  A  flush  of  astonishment,  a  sigh  over 
boundless  wealth  (for  the  mountains  of  debt  lie  invisible)  in 
the  hands  of  boundless  Stupidity  ;  some  vague  looming  of  in- 
definite hope  :  all  this  one  can  well  fancy.  But  alas,  what,  to 
a  high  plush  Cardinal,  is  a  now  insolvent  Scion-of -Royalty, — 
though  with  a  face  of  some  piquancy  ?  The  good  Foster- 
mother's  visit,  in  any  case,  can  last  but  three  days  ;  then,  amid 
old  namby-pambyings,  with  effusions  of  the  nobler  sensibili- 
ties and  tears  of  pity  at  least  for  oneself,  Countess  de  Lamotte, 
and  husband,  must  off  with  her  to  Paris,  and  new  possibilities 
at  Court.  Only  when  the  sky  again  darkens,  can  this  vague 
looming  from  Saverne  look  out,  by  fits,  as  a  cheering  weather- 
sign. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WILL  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  UNITE? 

However,  the  sky,  according  to  custom,  is  not  long  in  dark- 
ening again.    The  King's  finances,  we  repeat,  are  in  so  dis- 
tracted a  state  !    No  D'Ormesson,  no  Joly  de  Fleury,  wearied 
with  milking  the  already  dry,  will  increase  that  scandalous 
3 


34 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


Thirty  Pounds  of  a  Scion-of -Royalty  by  a  single  doit.  Calonne 
himself,  who  has  a  willing  ear  and  encouraging  word  for  all 
mortals  whatsoever,  only  with  difficulty,  and  by  aid  of  Madame 
of  France,1  raises  it  to  some  still  miserable  Sixty-five.  Worst 
of  all,  the  good  Fostermother  Boulainvilliers,  in  few  months, 
suddenly  dies :  the  wretched  widower,  sitting  there,  with  his 
white  handkerchief,  to  receive  condolences,  with  closed  shut- 
ters, mortuary  tapestries,  and  sepulchral  cressets  burning 
(which,  however,  the  instant  the  condolences  are  gone,  he 
blows  out,  to  save  oil),  has  the  audacity  again,  amid  crocodile 
tears,  to — drop  hints  ! 2  Nay  more,  he,  wretched  man  in  all 
senses,  abridges  the  Lamotte  table  ;  will  besiege  virtue  both 
in  the  positive  and  negative  way.  The  Lamottes,  wintry  as 
the  world  looks,  cannot  be  gone  too  soon. 

As  to  Lamotte  the  husband,  he,  for  shelter  against  much, 
decisively  dives  down  to  the  'subterranean  shades  of  Rascal- 
dom ; '  gambles,  swindles  ;  can  hope  to  live,  miscellaneously, 
if  not  by  the  Grace  of  God,  yet  by  the  Oversight  of  the  Devil, 
— for  a  time.  Lamotte  the  wife  also  makes  her  packages : 
and  waving  the  unseductive  Count  Boulainvillier  Save-all  a 
disdainful  farewell,  removes  to  the  Belle  Image  in  Versailles  ; 
there  within  wind  of  Court,  in  attic  apartments,  on  poor  water- 
gruel  board,  resolves  to  await  what  can  betide.  So  much,  in 
few  months  of  this  fateful  year,  1783,  has  come  and  gone. 

Poor  Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi  de  Lamotte  Yalois,  Ex-Man- 
tuamaker,  Scion-of-Royalty  !  What  eye,  looking  into  those 
bare  attic  apartments  and  water-gruel  platters  of  the  Belle 
Image,  but  must,  in  spite  of  itself,  grow  dim  with  almost  a 
kind  of  tear  for  thee  !  There  thou  art,  with  thy  quick  lively 
glances,  face  of  a  certain  piquancy,  thy  gossamer  untamable 
character,  snappish  sallies,  glib  all  -  managing  tongue  ;  thy 
whole  incarnated,  garmented,  and  so  sharply  appetent  '  spark 
of  Life  ; '  cast  down  alive  into  this  World,  without  vote  of 
thine  (for  the  Elective  Franchises  have  not  yet  got  that 
length)  ;  and  wouldst  so  fain  live  there.  Paying  scot-and- 
lot ;  providing,  or  fresh-scouring  silk  court-dresses ;  '  always 

1  See  Campan. 

2  Vie  de  Jeanne  de  Lamotte,  &c.  ecnte  par  elle-meme,  vol.  i. 


WILL  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  UNITE? 


35 


beeping  a  gig  ! '  Thou  must  hawk  and  shark  to  and  fro, 
from  anteroom  to  anteroom  ;  become  a  kind  of  terror  to  all 
men  in  place,  and  women  that  influence  such  ;  dance  not 
light  Ionic  measures,  but  attendance  merely ;  have  weepings, 
thanksgiving  effusions,  aulic,  almost  forensic,  eloquence  :  per- 
haps eke  out  thy  thin  livelihood  by  some  coquetries,  in  the 
small  way ;— and  so,  most  poverty-stricken,  cold-blighted, 
yet  with  young  keen  blood  struggling  against  it,  spin  for- 
ward thy  unequal  feeble  thread,  which  the  Atropos-scissors 
will  soon  clip  ! 

Surely  now,  if  ever,  were  that  vague  looming-  from  Saverne 
welcome,  as  a  weather  -  sign.  How  doubly  welcome  is  his 
plush  Eminence's  personal  arrival ; — for  with  the  earliest 
spring  he  has  come  in  person,  as  he  periodically  does  ;  vapo- 
rific,  driven  by  his  fixed- idea. 

Genius,  of  the  mechanical  practical  kind,  what  is  it  but  a 
bringing  together  of  two  Forces  that  fit  each  other,  that  will 
give  birth  to  a  third?  Ever,  from  Tubalcain's  time,  Iron  lay 
ready  hammered ;  Water,  also,  was  boiling  and  bursting  ; 
nevertheless,  for  want  of  a  genius,  there  was  as  yet  no  Steam- 
engine.  In  his  Eminence  Prince  Louis,  in  that  huge,  rest- 
less, incoherent  Being  of  his,  depend  on  it,  brave  Countess, 
there  are  Forces  deep,  manifold  ;  nay,  a  fixed-idea  concen- 
trates the  whole  huge  Incoherence  as  it  were  into  one  Force  : 
cannot  the  eye  of  genius  discover  its  felloiv? 

Communing  much  with  the  Court  valetaille,  our  brave 
Countess  has  more  than  once  heard  talk  of  Boehmer,  of  his 
Necklace,  and  threatened  death  by  water  ;  in  the  course  of 
gossiping  and  tattling,  this  topic  from  time  to  time  emerges  ; 
is  commented  upon  with  empty  laughter, — as  if  there  lay 
no  farther  meaning  in  it.  To  the  common  eye  there  is  in- 
deed none  :  but  fco  the  eye  of  genius  ?  In  some  moment  of 
inspiration,  the  question  rises  on  our  brave  Lamotte  :  Were 
not  this,  of  all  extant  Forces,  the  cognate  one  that  would 
unite  with  Eminence  Kohan's  ?  Great  moment,  light-beam- 
ing, fire-flashing  ;  like  birth  of  Minerva  ;  like  all  moments 
of  Creation  !  Fancy  how  pulse  and  breath  flutter,  almost 
stop,  in  the  greatness  :  the  great  not  Divine  Idea,  the  great 


30 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


Diabolic  Idea,  is  too  big  for  her. — Thought  (how  often  must 
we  repeat  it?)  rules  the  world.  Fire  and,  in  a  less  degree, 
Frost;  Earth  and  Sea  (for  what  is  your  swiftest  ship,  or 
steamship,  but  a  Thought — embodied  in  wood?);  Reformed 
Parliaments,  rise  and  ruin  of  Nations,  —sale  of  Diamonds  : 
all  things  obey  Thought.  Countess  de  Saint-Remi  de  La- 
motte,  by  power  of  Thought,  is  now  a  made  woman.  With 
force  of  genius  she  represses,  crushes  deep  down,  her  Undi- 
vine  Idea  ;  bends  all  her  faculty  to  realise  it.  Prepare  thy- 
self, Reader,  for  a  series  of  the  most  surprising  Dramatic 
Representations  ever  exhibited  on  any  stage. 

"We  hear  tell  of  Dramatists,  and  scenic  illusion  how  '  natu- 
ral,' how  illusive  it  was  :  if  the  spectator,  for  some  half -mo- 
ment, can  half-deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  was  real, 
he  departs  doubly  content.  With  all  which,  and  much  more 
of  the  like,  I  have  no  quarrel.  But  what  must  be  thought  of 
the  Female  Dramatist  who,  for  eighteen  long  months,  can  ex- 
hibit the  beautifullest  Fata-morgana  to  a  plush  Cardinal,  wide 
awake,  with  fifty  years  on  his  head  ;  and  so  lap  him  in  her 
scenic  illusion  that  he  never  doubts  but  it  is  all  firm  earth, 
and  the  pasteboard  Coulisse-trees  are  producing  Hesperides 
apples?  Could  Madame  de  Lamotte,  then,  have  written  a 
Hamlet  ?  I  conjecture,  not.  More  goes  to  the  writing  of  a 
Hamlet  than  completest  'imitation'  of  all  characters  and 
things  in  this  Earth  ;  there  goes,  before  and  beyond  all,  the 
rarest  understanding  of  these,  insight  into  their  hidden  es- 
sences and  harmonies.  Erasmus's  Ape,  as  is  known  in  Liter- 
ary History,  sat  by  while  its  Master  was  shaving,  and  'imi- 
tated '  every  point  of  the  process ;  but  its  own  foolish  beard 
grew  never  the  smoother. 

As  in  looking  at  a  finished  Drama,  it  were  nowise  meet  that 
the  spectator  first  of  all  got  behind  the  scenes,  and  saw  the 
burnt-corks,  brayed-resin,  thunder-barrels,  and  withered  hun- 
ger-bitten men  and  women,  of  which  such  heroic  work  was 
made  :  so  here  with  the  reader.  A  peep  into  the  side-scenes 
shall  be  granted  him,  from  time  to  time.  But,  on  the  whole,  re- 
press, O  reader,  that  too  insatiable  scientific  curiosity  of  thine  ; 


WILL  THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  UN1TE\  37 

lvt  thy  cesthetic  feeling  first  have  play  ;  and  witness  what  a  Pros* 
pero's-grotto  poor  Eminence  Rohan  is  led  into,  to  be  pleased 
he  knows  not  why. 

Survey  first  what  we  might  call  the  stage-lights,  orchestra, 
general  structure  of  the  theatre,  mood  and  condition  of  the 
audience.  The  theatre  is  the  World,  with  its  restless  business 
and  madness  ;  near  at  hand  rise  the  royal  Domes  of  Versailles, 
mystery  around  them,  and  as  background  the  memory  of  a 
thousand  years.  By  the  side  of  the  River  Seine  walks,  hag- 
gard, wasted,  a  Joaillier-Bijoutier  de  la  Reine,  with  Necklace 
in  his  pocket.  The  audience  is  a  drunk  Christopher  Sly  in 
the  fittest  humour.  A  fixed-idea,  driving  him  headlong  over 
steep  places,  like  that  of  the  Gadarenes'  Swine,  has  produced 
a  deceptibility,  as  of  desperation,  that  will  clutch  at  straws. 
Understand  one  other  word  ;  Cagliostro  is  prophesying  to  him  ! 
The  Quack  of  Quacks  has  now  for  years  had  him  in  leading. 
Transmitting  1 predictions  in  cipher  ; '  questioning,  before 
Hieroglyphic  Screens,  Columbs  in  a  state  of  innocence,  for 
elixirs  of  life,  and  philosopher's  stone  ;  unveiling,  in  fuliginous 
clear-obscure,  an  imaginary  majesty  of  Nature  ;  he  isolates 
him  more  and  more  from  all  unpossessed  men.  Was  it  not 
enough  that  poor  Rohan  had  become  a  dissolute,  somnolent- 
violent,  ever-vapoury  Mud-volcano  ;  but  black  Egyptian  magic 
must  be  laid  on  him  ! 

If  perhaps,  too,  our  Countess  de  Lamotte,  with  her  blan- 
dishments— -  ?  For  though  not  beautiful,  she  '  has  a  certain 
piquancy '  et  cetera  ! — Enough,  his  poor  Eminence  sits  in  the 
fittest  place,  in  the  fittest  mood  :  a  newly-awakened  Christo- 
pher Sly  ;  and  with  his  •  small  ale,'  too,  beside  him.  Touch, 
only,  the  lights  with  firetipt  rod  ;  and  let  the  orchestra,  soft* 
warbling,  strike  up  their  fara-lara  fiddle-diddle-dee  ! 


38 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

MARIE- ANTOINETTE. 

Such  a  soft- warbling  fara-lara  was  it  to  his  Eminence,  when* 
in  early  January  of  the  year  1784,  our  Countess  first,  mys- 
teriously, and  under  seal  of  swTorn  secrecy,  hinted  to  him  that, 
with  her  winning  tongue  and  great  talent  as  Anecdotic  His- 
torian, she  had  worked  a  passage  to  the  ear  of  Queen's  Maj- 
esty itself.1  Gods!  dost  thou  bring  with  thee  airs  from 
Heaven  ?  Is  thy  face  yet  radiant  with  some  reflex  of  that 
Brightness  beyond  bright  ? — Men  with  fixed-idea  are  not  as 
other  men.  To  listen  to  a  plain  varnished  tale,  such  as  your 
Dramatist  can  fashion  ;  to  ponder  the  words  ;  to  snuff  them 
up,  as  Ephraim  did  the  east-wind,  and  grow  flatulent  and 
drunk  with  them  :  what  else  could  poor  Eminence  do  ?  His 
poor  somnolent,  so  swift-rocked  soul  feels  a  new  element  in- 
fused into  it  ;  turbid  resinous  light,  wide-coruscating,  glares 
over  the  waste  of  his  imagination.  Is  he  interested  in  the 
mysterious  tidings  ?  Hope  has  seized  them  ;  there  is  in  the 
world  nothing  else  that  interests  him. 

The  secret  friendship  of  Queens  is  not  a  thing  to  be  let 
sleep  :  ever  new  Palace  Interviews  occur ; — yet  in  deepest 
privacy  ;  for  how  should  her  Majesty  awaken  so  many  tongues 
of  Principalities  and  Nobilities,  male  and  female,  that  spite- 
fully watch  her  ?  Above  all,  however,  '  on  the  2d  of  February/ 
that  day  of  'the  Procession  of  blue  Ribands/2  much  was 
spoken  of  :  somewhat,  too,  of  Monseigneur  de  Rohan  ! — Poor 
Monseigneur,  hadst  thou  three  long  ears,  thou'dst  hear  her. 

But  will  she  not,  perhaps,  in  some  future  priceless  Interview, 
speak  a  good  word  for  thee  ?  Thyself  shalt  speak  it,  happy 
Eminence  ;  at  least,  write  it :  our  tutelary  Countess  will  be 
the  bearer  ! — On  the  21st  of  March  goes  off  that  long  exculpa- 
tory imploratory  Letter  :  it  is  the  first  Letter  that  went  off 

1  Compare  Rohan's  Memoir es  "pour  (there  are  four  of  them),  in  the 
Affaire  du  Collier,  with  Lamotte's  four.  They  go  on  in  the  way  of  con- 
troversy, of  argument  and  response. 

2  Lamotte's  Memoires  Justijicatifs  (London,  1788). 


MARIE-ANTOINETTE.  39 

fk'om  Cardinal  to  Queen ;  to  be  followed,  in  time,  by  '  above 
two  hundred  others  ; 5  which  are  graciously  answered  by  ver- 
bal Messages,  nay  at  length  by  Royal  Autographs  on  gilt 
paper, — the  whole  delivered  by  our  tutelary  Countess. 1  The 
tutelary  Countess  comes  and  goes,  fetching  and  carrying ; 
with  the  gravity  of  a  Roman  Augur,  inspects  those  extra- 
ordinary chicken-bowels,  and  draws  prognostics  from  them. 
Things  are  in  fair  train  :  the  Dauphiness  took  some  offence 
at  Monseigneur,  but  the  Queen  has  nigh  forgotten  it.  No 
inexorable  Queen  ;  ah  no  !  So  good,  so  free,  light-hearted  ; 
only  sore  beset  with  malicious  Polignacs  and  others ; — at 
times,  also,  short  of  money. 

Marie  Antoinette,  as  the  reader  well  knows,  has  been  much 
blamed  for  want  of  Etiquette.  Even  now,  when  the  other 
accusations  against  her  have  sunk  down  to  oblivion  and  the 
Father  of  Lies,  this  of  wanting  Etiquette  survives  her  ; — in 
the  Castle  of  Ham,  at  this  hour,2  M.  de  Polignac  and  Com- 
pany may  be  wringing  their  hands,  not  without  an  oblique 
glance  at  her  for  bringing  them  thither.  She  indeed  dis- 
carded Etiquette  ;  once,  when  her  carriage  broke  down,  she 
even  entered  a  hackney-coach.  She  would  walk,  too,  at  Tria- 
non, in  mere  straw-hat,  and  perhaps  muslin  gown  !  Hence, 
the  Knot  of  Etiquette  being  loosed,  the  Frame  of  Society 
broke  up  ;  and  those  astonishing  6  Horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution '  supervened.  On  what  Damocles'  hairs  must  the 
judgment-sword  hang  over  this  distracted  Earth  !  Thus,  how- 
ever, it  was  that  Tenterden  Steeple  brought  an  influx  of  the 
Atlantic  on  us,  and  so  Godwin  Sands.  Thus,  too,  might  it 
be  that  because  Father  Noah  took  the  liberty  of,  say,  rinsing 
out  his  wine-vat,  his  Ark  was  floated  off,  and  a  world  drowned. 
— Beautiful  Highborn  that  wert  so  foully  hurled  low  !  For, 
if  thy  Being  came  to  thee  out  old  Hapsburg  Dynasties,  came 
it  not  also  (like  my  own)  out  of  Heaven?  Sunt  lachrymce 
rerum,  et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt.    Oh,  is  there  a  man's  heart 

1  See  Georgel :  see  Lamotte's  Memoires  ;  in  her  Appendix  of  '  Docu- 
ments '  to  that  volume,  certain  of  these  Letters  are  given. 
52  a.d.  1831. 


40  THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 

that  thinks,  without  pity,  of  those  long  months  and  years  ol 
slow-wasting  ignominy ; — of  thy  birth,  soft-cradled  in  Impe- 
rial Schonbrunn,  the  winds  of  heaven  not  to  visit  thy  face  too 
roughly,  thy  foot  to  light  on  softness,  thy  eye  on  splendour ; 
and  then  of  thy  Death  or  hundred  Deaths,  to  which  the  Guil- 
lotine and  Fouquier  Tinville's  judgment-bar  was  but  the 
merciful  end  ?  Look  there,  O  man  born  of  woman !  The 
bloom  of  that  fair  face  is  wasted,  the  hair  is  gray  with  care  ; 
the  brightness  of  those  eyes  is  quenched,  their  lids  hang 
drooping,  the  face  is  stony  pale  as  of  one  living  in  death. 
Mean  weeds,  which  her  own  hand  has  mended,1  attire  the 
Queen  of  the  World.  The  death-hurdle,  where  thou  sittest 
pale  motionless,  which  only  curses  environ,  has  to  stop :  a 
people,  drunk  with  vengeance,  will  drink  it  again  in  full 
draught,  looking  at  thee  there.  Far  as  the  eye  reaches,  a 
multitudinous  sea  of  maniac  heads  ;  the  air  deaf  with  their 
triumph-yell !  The  Living-dead  must  shudder  with  yet  one 
other  pang  ;  her  startled  blood  yet  again  suffuses  with  the 
hue  of  agony  that  pale  face,  which  she  hides  with  her  hands. 
There  is  then  no  heart  to  say,  God  pity  thee  ?  O  think  not 
of  these  ;  think  of  Him  whom  thou  worshippest,  the  Crucified, 
— who  also  treading  the  wine-press  alone,  fronted  sorrow  still 
deeper ;  and  triumphed  over  it,  and  made  it  holy  ;  and  built 
of  it  a  £  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,'  for  thee  and  all  the  wretched  ! 
Thy  path  of  thorns  is  nigh  ended.  One  long  last  look  at  the 
Tuileries,  where  thy  step  was  once  so  light, — where  thy  chil- 
dren shall  not  dwell.  The  head  is  on  the  block  ;  the  axe 
rushes — Dumb  lies  the  World  ;  that  wild-yelling  World,  and 
all  its  madness,  is  behind  thee. 

Beautiful  Highborn  that  wert  so  foully  hurled  low  !  Eest 
yet  in  thy  innocent  gracefully  heedless  seclusion,  unintruded 
on  by  me,  while  rude  hands  have  not  yet  desecrated  it.  Be  the 
curtains,  that  shroud-in  (if  for  the  last  time  on  this  Earth)  a 
Koyal  Life,  still  sacred  to  me.  Thy  fault,  in  the  French  Inv- 
olution, was  that  thou  wert  the  Symbol  of  the  Sin  and  Misery 
of  a  thousand  years ;  that  with  Saint- Bartholomews,  and 

1  Weber  :  Memoires  concernant  Marie- Antoinette  (London,  1809),  tome 
iii.  notes,  106. 


THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  WILL  UNITE. 


41 


Jacqueries,  with  Gabelles,  and  Dragonades,  and  Parcs-aux- 
cerfs,  the  heart  of  mankind  was  filled  fall, — and  foamed  over, 
into  all-involving  madness.  To  no  Napoleon,  to  no  Cromwell 
wert  thou  wedded  :  such  sit  not  in  the  highest  rank,  of  them- 
selves ;  are  raised  on  high  by  the  shaking  and  confounding 
of  all  the  ranks  !  As  poor  peasants,  how  happy,  worthy  had 
ye  two  been  !  But  by  evil  destiny  ye  were  made  a  King  and 
Queen  of  ;  and  so  both  once  more — are  become  an  astonish- 
ment and  a  by-word  to  all  times. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  WILL  UNITE. 

cc  Countess  de  Lamotte,  then,  had  penetrated  into  the  con- 
fidence of  the  Queen  ?  Those  gilt-paper  Autographs  were 
actually  written  by  the  Queen  ?  "  Keader,  forget  not  to  re- 
press that  too  insatiable  scientific  curiosity  of  thine  !  What 
I  know  is,  that  a  certain  Villette-de-Ketaux,  with  military 
whiskers;  denizen  of  Eascaldom,  comrade  there  of  Monsieur 
le  Comte,  is  skilful  in  imitating  hands.  Certain  it  is  also,  that 
Madame  la  Comtesse  has  penetrated  to  the  Trianon — Door- 
keeper's. Nay,  as  Campan  herself  must  admit,  she  has  met, 
'at  a  Man-midwife's  in  Versailles,'  with  worthy  Queen's-valet 
Lesclaux,  —or  Desclos,  for  there  is  no  uniformity  in  it.  With 
these,  or  the  like  of  these,  she  in  the  back-parlour  of  the 
Palace  itself  (if  late  enough),  may  pick  a  merrythought,  sip 
the  foam  from  a  glass  of  Champagne.  No  farther  seek  her 
honours  to  disclose,  for  the  present ;  or  anatomically  dis- 
sect, as  we  said,  those  extraordinary  chicken-bowels,  from 
which  she,  and  she  alone,  can  read  Decrees  of  Fate,  and  also 
realise  them. 

Sceptic,  seest  thou  his  Eminence  waiting  there,  in  the 
moonlight  ;  hovering  to  and  fro  on  the  back  terrace,  till  she 
come  out — from  the  ineffable  Interview  ?  1  He  is  close  muf- 
fled ;  walks  restlessly  observant ;  shy  also,  and  courting  the 
shade.  She  comes  :  up  closer  with  thy  capote,  O  Eminence, 
1  See  Oeorgel. 


42 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


down  with  thy  broadbrim  ;  for  she  has  an  escort !  'Tis  but 
the  good  Monsieur  Queen  s-valet  Lesclaux :  and  now  he  is 
sent  back  again,  as  no  longer  needful.  Mark  him,  Monseign- 
eur,  nevertheless  ;  thou  wilt  see  him  yet  another  time. 
Monseigneur  marks  little :  his  heart  is  in  the  ineffable  Inter- 
view, in  the  gilt-paper  Autograph  alone. — Queen's-valet  Les- 
claux ?  Methinks,  he  has  much  the  stature  of  Villette,  deni- 
zen of  Rascaldom  !    Impossible  ! 

How  our  Countess  managed  with  Cagliostro  ?  Cagliostro, 
gone  from  Strasburg,  is  as  yet  far  distant,  winging  his  way 
through  dim  Space ;  will  not  be  here  for  months  :  only  his 
( predictions  in  cipher  ?  are  here.  Here  or  there,  however, 
Cagliostro,  to  our  Countess,  can  be  useful.  At  a  glance,  the 
eye  of  genius  has  descried  him  to  be  a  bottomless  slough  of 
falsity,  vanity,  gulosity  and  thick-eyed  stupidity  :  of  foulest 
material,  but  of  fattest ; — fit  compost  for  the  Plant  she  is 
rearing.  Him  who  has  deceived  all  Europe  she  can  under- 
take to  deceive.  His  Columbs,  demonic  Masonries,  Egyp- 
tian Elixirs,  what  is  all  this  to  the  light-giggling  exclusively 
practical  Lamotte  ?  It  runs  off  from  her,  as  all  speculation, 
good,  bad  and  indifferent,  has  always  done,  £  like  water  from 
one  in  wax-cloth  dress.'  With  the  lips  meanwhile  she  can 
honour  it ;  Oil  of  Flattery,  the  best  patent  antifriction  known, 
subdues  all  irregularities  whatsoever. 

On  Cagliostro,  again,  on  his  side,  a  certain  uneasy  feeling 
might,  for  moments,  intrude  itself  ;  the  raven  loves  not  ravens. 
But  what  can  he  do  ?  Nay,  she  is  partly  playing  his  game  : 
can  he  not  spill  her  full  cup  yet,  at  the  right  season,  and  pack 
her  out  of  doors  ?  Often  est,  in  their  joyous  orgies,  this  light 
fascinating  Countess, — who  perhaps  has  a  design  on  his  heart, 
seems  to  him  but  one  other  of  those  light  Papiliones,  who 
have  fluttered  round  him  in  all  climates  ;  whom  with  grim 
muzzle  he  has  snapt  by  the  thousand. 

T  Thus,  what  with  light  fascinating  Countess,  what  with  Quack 
of  Quacks,  poor  Eminence  de  Rohan  lies  safe  ;  his  mud-vol- 
cano placidly  simmering  in  thick  Egyptian  haze  :  withdrawn 
from  all  the  world.  Moving  figures,  as  of  men,  he  sees ;  takes 


THE  TWO  FIXED-IDEAS  WILL  UNITE. 


43 


not  the  trouble  to  look  at.  Court-cousins  rally  him  ;  are 
answered  in  silence  ;  or,  if  it  go  too  far,  in  mud-explosions 
terrifico- absurd.  Court-cousins  and  all  mankind  are  unreal 
shadows  merely  ;  Queen's  favour  the  only  substance. 

Nevertheless,  the  World,  on  its  side  too,  has  an  existence  ; 
lies  not  idle  in  these  days.  It  has  got  its  Versailles  Treaty 
signed,  long  months  ago  ;  and  the  plenipotentiaries  all  home 
again,  for  votes  of  thanks.  Paris,  London  and  other  great 
Cities  and  small,  are  working,  intriguing  ;  dying,  being  born. 
There,  in  the  Kue  Taranne,  for  instance,  the  once  noisy  Denis 
Diderot  has  fallen  silent  enough.  Here  also,  in  Bolt  Court, 
old  Samuel  Johnson,  like  an  over- wearied  Giant,  must  lie 
down,  and  slumber  without  dream  ; — the  rattling  of  carriages 
and  wains,  and  all  the  world's  din  and  business  rolling  by, 
as  ever,  from  of  old. — Sieur  Boehmer,  however,  has:  not  yet 
drowned  himself  in  the  Seine ;  only  walks  haggard,  wasted, 
purposing  to  do  it. 

News  (by  the  merest  accident  in  the  world)  reach  Sieur 
Boehmer,  of  Madame's  new  favour  with  her  Majesty  !  Men 
will  do  much  before  they  drown.  Sieur  Boehmer's  Necklace 
is  on  Madame's  table,  his  guttural-nasal  rhetoric  in  her  ear  : 
he  will  abate  many  a  pound  and  penny  of  the  first  just  price  ; 
he  will  give  cheerfully  a  thousand  Louis-d'or,  as  cadeau,  to  the 
generous  Scion-of-Royality  that  shall  persuade  her  Majesty. 
The  man's  importunities  grow  quite  annoying  to  our  Coun- 
tess ;  who,  in  her  glib  way,  satirically  prattles  how  she  has 
been  bored, — to  Monseigneur,  among  others. 

Dozing  on  down  cushions,  far  inwards,  with  soft  minister- 
ing Hebes,  and  luxurious  appliances  ;  with  ranked  Heyducs, 
and  a  Valetaille  innumerable,  that  shut  out  the  prose-world 
and  its  discord  :  thus  lies  Monsigneur,  in  enchanted  dream. 
Can  he,  even  in  sleep,  forget  his  tutelary  Countess,  and  her 
service?  By  the  delicatest  presents  he  alleviates  her  dis- 
tresses, most  undeserved.  Nay,  once  or  twice,  gilt  Autographs, 
from  a  Queen, — with  whom  he  is  evidently  rising  to  unknown 
heights  in  favour, — have  done  Monseigneur  the  honour  to  make 
him  her  Majesty's  Grand  Almoner,  when  the  case  was  press- 


44 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


ing.  Monseigneur,  we  say,  has  had  the  honour  to  disburse 
charitable  cash,  on  her  Majesty's  behalf,  to  this  or  the  other 
distressed  deserving  object :  say  only  to  the  length  of  a  few 
thousand  pounds,  advanced  from  his  own  funds  ; — her  Majesty 
being  at  the  moment  so  poor,  and  charity  a  thing  that  will 
not  wait.  Always  Madame,  good,  foolish,  gadding  creature, 
takes  charge  of  delivering  the  money. — Madame  can  descend 
from  her  attics,  in  the  Belle  Image  ;  and  feel  the  smiles  of 
Nature  and  Fortune,  a  little  ;  so  bounteous  has  the  Queen's 
Majesty  been.1 

To  Monseigneur  the  power  of  money  over  highest  female 
hearts  had  never  been  incredible.  Presents  have,  many 
times,  worked  wonders.  But  then,  O  Heavens,  what  present? 
Scarcely  were  the  Cloud-Co mpeller  himself,  all  coined  into 
new  Louis-d'or,  worthy  to  alight  in  such  a  lap.  Loans,  char- 
itable disbursements,  however,  as  we  see,  are  permissible  ;  these, 
by  defect  of  payment,  may  become  presents.  In  the  vortex  of 
his  Eminence's  day-dreams,  lumbering  multiform  slowly  round, 
this  of  importunate  Boehmer  and  his  Necklace,  from  time  to 
time,  turns  up.  Is  the  Queen's  Majesty  at  heart  desirous  of  it ; 
but  again,  at  the  moment,  too  poor  ?  Our  tutelary  Countess 
answers  vagely,  mysteriously  ;— confesses,  at  last,  under  oath 
of  secrecy,  her  own  private  suspicion  that  the  Queen  wants 
this  same  Necklace,  of  all  things  ;  but  dare  not,  for  a  stingy 
husband,  buy  it.  She,  the  Countess  de  Lamotte,  will  look 
farther  into  the  matter  ;  and,  if  aught  serviceable  to  his  Emi- 
nence can  be  suggested,  in  a  good  way  suggest  it,  in  the 
proper  quarter. 

Walk  warily,  Countess  de  Lamotte  ;  for  now,  with  thicken- 
ing breath,  thou  approachest  the  moment  of  moments  !  Prin- 
cipalities and  Powers,  Parlement,  Grand  Chambre  and  Tour- 
nelle,  with  all  their  whips  and  gibbet- wheels  ;  the  very  Crack 
of  Doom  hangs  over  thee,  if  thou  trip.  Forward,  with  nerve 
of  iron,  on  shoes  of  felt ;  like  a  Treasure-digger,  in  silence, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left, — where  yawn  abysses 
deep  as  the  Pool,  and  all  Pandemonium  hovers,  eager  to  rend 
thee  into  rags  ! 

1  GeorgeL    Rohan's  four  Memoires  pour  ;  Lamotte's  four. 


PARK  OF  VERSAILLES. 


45 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PARK    OF  VERSAILLES. 

Or  will  the  reader  incline  rather,  taking  the  other  and 
sunny  side  of  the  matter,  to  enter  that  Lamottic  Circean  the- 
atrical establishment  of  Monseigneur  de  Rohan  ;  and  see  there 
how,  under  the  best  of  Dramaturgists,  Melodrama  with  sweep- 
ing pall  flits  past  him  ;  while  the  enchanted  Diamond  fruit  is 
gradually  ripening,  to  fall  by  a  shake  ? 

The  28th  of  July,  of  this  same  momentous  1784,  has  come.; 
and  with  it  the  most  rapturous  tumult  into  the  heart  of  Mon- 
seigneur. Ineffable  expectancy  stirs- up  his  whole  soul,  with 
the  much  that  lies  therein,  from  its  lowest  foundations :  borne 
on  wild  seas  to  Armida  Islands,  yet  as  is  fit,  through  Horror 
dim-hovering  round,  he  tumultuously  rocks.  To  the  Chateau, 
to  the  Park  !  This  night  the  Queen  will  meet  thee,  the  Queen 
herself :  so  far  has  our  tutelary  Countess  brought  it.  What 
can  ministerial  impediments,  Polignac  intrigues,  avail  against 
the  favour,  nay — Heaven  and  Earth  ! — perhaps  the  tenderness 
of  a  Queen  ?  She  vanishes  from  amid  their  meshwork  of  Eti- 
quette and  Cabal ;  descends  from  her  celestial  Zodiac,  to  thee 
a  shepherd  of  Latmos.  Alas,  a  white-bearded  pursy  shepherd, 
fat  and  scant  of  breath  !  Who  can  account  for  the  taste  of 
females?  But  thou,  burnish-up  thy  whole  faculties  of  gal- 
lantry, thy  fifty-years  experience  of  the  sex  ;  this  night,  or 
never  ! — In  such  unutterable  meditations  does  Monseigneur 
restlessly  spend  the  day  ;  and  long  for  darkness,  yet  dread  it. 

Darkness  has  at  length  come.  The  perpendicular  rows  of 
Hey  dues,  in  that  Palais  or  Hotel  de  Strasbourg,  are  all  cast 
prostrate  in  sleep  ;  the  very  Concierge  resupine,  with  open 
mouth,  audibly  drinks-in  nepenthe  ;  when  Monseigneur,  '  in 
blue  great-coat,  wTith  slouched  hat,  issues  softly,  with  his 
henchman  Planta  of  the  Grisons,  to  the  Park  of  Versailles. 
Planta  must  loiter  invisible  in  the  distance  ;  Slouched  hat  will 
wait  here,  among  the  leafy  thickets  ;  till  our  tutelary  Countess, 
\  in  black  domino/  announce  the  moment,  which  surely  must 
be  near. 


46 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


The  night  is  of  the  darkest  for  the  season  ;  no  Moon  ; 
warm,  slumbering  July,  in  motionless  clouds,  drops  fatness 
over  the  Earth.  The  very  stars  from  the  Zenith  see  not  Mon- 
seigneur  ;  see  only  his  and  the  world's  cloud-covering,  fringed 
with  twilight  in  the  far  North.  Midnight,  telling  itself  forth 
from  these  shadowy  Palace  Domes  ?  All  the  steeples  of 
Versailles,  the  villages  around,  with  metal  tongue,  and  huge 
Paris  itself  dull-droning,  answer  drowsily,  Yes  !  Sleep  rules 
this  Hemisphere  of  the  World.  From  Arctic  to  Antarctic, 
the  Life  of  our  Earth  lies  all,  in  long  swaths,  or  rows  (like 
those  rows  of  Heyducs  and  snoring  Concierge),  successively 
mown  down,  from  vertical  to  horizontal,  by  Sleep !  Rather 
curious  to  consider. 

The  flowers  are  all  asleep  in  Little  Trianon,  the  roses 
folded-in  for  the  night  ;  but  the  Rose  of  Roses  still  wakes. 
O  wondrous  Earth  !  O  doubly  wondrous  Park  of  Versailles, 
with  Little  and  Great  Trianon, — and  a  scarce-breathing  Mon- 
seigneur  !  Ye  Hydraulics  of  Lenotre,  that  also  slumber,  with 
stop-cocks,  in  your  deep  leaden  chambers,  babble  not  of  him, 
when  ye  arise.  Ye  odorous  balm-shrubs,  huge  spectral 
Cedars,  thou  sacred  Boscage  of  Hornbeam,  ye  dim  Pavilions 
of  the  Peerless,  whisper  not !  Moon,  lie  silent,  hidden  in  thy 
vacant  cave  ;  no  star  look  down  :  let  neither  Heaven  nor  Hell 
peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  Night,  to  cry,  Hold,  Hold ! 
— The  Black  Domino  ?  Ha  \  Yes  ! — With  stouter  step  than 
might  have  been  expected>  Monseigneur  is  under  way ;  the 
Black  Domino  had  only  to  whisper,  low  and  eager  :  "In  the 
Hornbeam  Arbour  !  "  And  now,  Cardinal,  O  now  ! — Yes, 
there  hovers  the  white  Celestial ;  c  in  white  robe  of  linon 
mouchete,'  finer  than  moonshine  ;  a  Juno  by  her  bearing  i 
there,  in  that  bosket !  Monseigneur,  down  on  thy  knees ; 
never  can  red  breeches  be  better  wasted.  Oh,  he  would  kiss 
the  royal  shoe-tie,  or  its  shadow  if  there  were  one  :  not  words  ; 
only  broken  gaspings,  murmuring  prostrations,  eloquently 
speak  his  meaning.  But,  ah,  behold !  Our  tutelary  Black 
Domino,  in  haste,  with  vehement  whisper  :  cc  On  vient."  The 
white  Juno  drops  a  fairest  Rose,  with  these  ever-memorable 
words,  "  Vous  savez  ce  que  cela  veut  dire,  You  know  what  that 


PARK  OF  VERSAILLES. 


47 


means ;  "  vanishes  in  the  thickets,  the  Black  Domino  hurrying 
her  with  eager  whisper  of  "  Vite,  vite,  Away,  away  ! "  for  the 
sound  of  footsteps  (doubtless  from  Madame,  and  Madame 
d'Artois,  unwelcome  sisters  that  they  are!)  is  approaching 
fast.  Monseigneur  picks  up  his  Rose  ;  runs  as  for  the  King's 
plate,  almost  overturns  poor  Planta,  whose  laugh  assures  him 
that  all  is  safe.1  > 

0  Ixion  de  Rohan,  happiest  mortal  of  this  world,  since  the 
first  Ixion,  of  deathless  memory, — who  nevertheless,  in  that 
cloud-embrace,  begat  strange  Centaurs !  Thou  art  Prime 
Minister  of  France  without  peradventure  :  is  not  this  the  Rose 
of  Royalty,  worthy  to  become  ottar  of  roses,  and  yield  per- 
fume forever?  How  thou,  of  all  people,  wilt  contrive  to 
govern  France,  in  these  very  peculiar  times — But  that  is  little 
to  the  matter.  There,  doubtless,  is  thy  Rose  (which  methinks, 
it  were  well  to  have  a  Box  or  Casket  made  for)  :  nay,  was 
there  not  in  the  dulcet  of  thy  Juno's  "  Vons  savez"  a  kind  of 
trepidation,  a  quaver, — as  of  still  deeper  meanings  ! 

Reader,  there  is  hitherto  no  item  of  this  miracle  that  is  not 
historically  proved  and  true. — In  distracted  black-magical 
phantasm agory,  adumbrations  of  yet  higher  and  highest  Dal- 
liances 2  hover  stupendous  in  the  background  :  whereof  your 
Georgels,  and  Campans,  and  other  official  characters  can  take 
no  notice  !  There,  in  distracted  black-magical  phantasma- 
gory,  let  these  hover.  The  truth  of  them  for  us  is  that  they 
do  so  hover.  The  truth  of  them  in  itself  is  known  only  to 
three  persons  :  Dame  self-styled  Countess  de  Lamotte  ;  the 
Devil  ;  and  Philippe  Egalite, — who  furnished  money  and  facts 

1  Compare  Georgel,  Larnotte's  Memoir es  Justijkatifs,  and  the  Memoires 
pour  of  the  various  parties,  especially  Gay  d'Oliva's.  Georgel  places  the 
&cene  in  the  year  1785  ;  quite  wrong.  Larnotte's  4  royal  Autographs  9  (as 
given  in  the  Appendix  to  Memoires  Justificatjfs)  seem  to  be  misdated  as 
to  the  day  of  the  month.    There  is  endless  confusion  of  dates. 

2  Larnotte's  Memoires  Justiflcatifs  ;  Ms.  Songs  in  the  Affaire  du  Collier, 
&c,  &c.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  brutality  of  these  things  (unfit  for 
Print  or  Pen)  ;  which  nevertheless  found  believers, — increase  of  be- 
lievers, in  the  public  exasperation  ;  and  did  the  Queen,  say  all  her  his- 
torians, incalculable  damage. 


4S 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


for  the  Lamotte  Memoirs,  and,  before  guillotinement,  begat 
the  present  King*  of  the  French. 

Enough,  that  Ixion  de  Rohan,  lapsed  almost  into  deliquium, 
by  such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,  is  the  happiest  of  all 
men  ;  and  his  tutelary  Countess  the  dearest  of  all  women, 
save  one  only.  On  the  25th  of  August  (so  strong  still  are 
those  villanous  Drawing-room  cabals)  he  goes,  weeping,  but 
submissive,  by  order  of  a  gilt  Autograph,  home  to  Saverne  ; 
till  farther  dignities  can  be  matured  for  him.  He  carries  his 
Rose,  now  considerably  faded,  in  a  Casket  of  fit  price  ;  may, 
if  he  so  please,  perpetuate  it  as  loot-pcurri.  He  names  a  fa- 
vourite walk  in  his  Archiepiscopal  pleasure-grounds,  Prome- 
nade de  la  Rose  ;  there  let  him  court  digestion,  and  loyally  ' 
somnambulate  till  called  for. 

I  notice  it  as  a  coincidence  in  chronology,  that,  few  days 
after  this  date,  the  Demoiselle  (or  even,  for  the  last  month. 
Baroness)  Gay  d'Oliva  began  to  find  Countess  de  Lamotte; 
'not  at  home,'  in  her  fine  Paris  hotel,  in  her  fine  Charonne 
country-house  ;  and  went  no  more,  with  Villette,  and  such 
pleasant  dinner-guests,  and  her,  to  see  Beaumarchais'  Mariage 
de  Figaro  1  running  its  hundred  nights. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

u  The  Queen  ?  "  Good  reader,  thou  surely  art  not  a  Par- 
tridge the  Schoolmaster  or  a  Monseigneur  de  Rohan,  to  mis- 
take the  stage  for  a  reality!  —  "But  who  this  Demoiselle 
d'Oliva  was  ?  "  Reader,  let  us  remark  rather  how  the  labours 
of  our  Dramaturgic  Countess  are  increasing. 

New  actors  I  see  on  the  scene  ;  not  one  of  whom  shall  guess 
what  the  other  is  doing  ;  or,  indeed,  know  rightly  what  him- 
self is  doing.  For  example,  cannot  Messieurs  de  Lamotte 
and'  Vilette,  of  Rascaldom,  like  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  take  a 
midnight  walk  of  contemplation,  with  '  footsteps  of  Madame 
and  Madame  d'Artois '  (since  all  footsteps  are  much  the  same), 
without  offence  to  any  one  ?  A  Queen's  Similitude  can  be- 
1  Gay  d'Oliva's  First  Mtmoire  pour,  p.  87. 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 


49 


lieve  that  a  Queen's  Self,  for  frolic's  sake,  is  looking  at  her 
through  the  thicket ; 1  a  terrestrial  Cardinal  can  kiss  with  de- 
votion a  celestial  Queen's  slipper,  or  Queen's  Similitude's 
slipper, — and  no  one  but  a  Black  Domino  the  wiser.  All 
these  shall  follow  each  his  precalculated  course  ;  for  their  in- 
ward mechanism  is  known,  and  fit  wires  hook  themselves  on 
this.  To  Two  only  is  a  clear  belief  vouchsafed  :  to  Monseign- 
eur,  a  clear  belief  founded  on  stupidity  :  to  the  great  crea- 
tive Dramaturgist,  sitting  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  mystery, 
a  clear  belief  founded  on  completest  insight.  Great  creative 
Dramaturgist !  How,  like  Schiller,  '  by  union  of  the  Possible 
with  the  Necessarily  existing,  she  brings  out  the' — Eighty 
thousand  Pounds  !  Don  Aranda,  with  his  triple-sealed  mis- 
sives and  hoodwinked  secretaries,  bragged  justly  that  he  cut 
down  the  Jesuits  in  one  day  :  but  here,  without  ministerial 
salary,  or  King's  favour,  or  any  help  beyond  her  own  black 
domino,  labours  a  greater  than  he.  How  she  advances, 
stealthily,  steadfastly,  with  Argus  eye  and  ever-ready  brain  ; 
with  nerve  of  iron,  on  shoes  of  felt !  O  worthy  to  have  in- 
trigued for  Jesuitdom,  for  Pope's  Tiara  ; — to  have  been  Pope 
Joan  thyself,  in  those  old  days  ;  and  as  Arachne  of  Arachnes, 
sat  in  the  centre  of  that  stupendous  spider-web,  which,  reach- 
ing from  Goa  to  Acapulco,  and  from  Heaven  to  Hell,  over- 
netted  the  thoughts  and  souls  of  men  ! — Of  which  spider-web 
stray  tatters,  in  favourable  dewy  mornings,  even  yet  become 
visible. 

The  Demoiselle  d'Oliva  ?  She  is  a  Parisian  Demoiselle 
of  three-and-twenty,  tall,  blond  and  beautiful ; 2  from  unjust 

1  See  Lamotte  ;  see  Gay  cP  Oliva. 

2  I  was  then  presented  4  to  two  Ladies,  one  of  whom  was  remarkable 
for  the  richness  of  her  shape  i  she  had  blue  eyes  and  chestnut  hair ' 
(Bette  d'Etienville's  Second  Me  moire  pour  ;  in  the  Suite  de  V  Affaire 
du  Collie}').  This  is  she  whom  Bette,  and  Bette's  Advocate,  intended 
the  world  to  take  for  Gay  d'Oliva.     '  The  other  is  of  middle  size  :  dark 

*  eyes,  chestnut  hair,  white  complexion  :  the  sound  of  her  voice  is 

*  agreeable  ;  she  speaks  perfectly  well,  and  with  no  less  faculty  than 
4  vivacity  ; '  this  one  is  meant  for  Lamotte.  Oliva's  real  name  was  Es- 
signy  ;  the  Oliva  (Olisva,  anagram  of  Valois)  was  given  her  by  La- 
motte along  with  the  title  of  Baroness  ( Ms.  Note,  Affaire  duCollier). 

4 


50  THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 

guardians,  and  an  evil  world,  she  has  had  somewhat  to 
suffer. 

4  In  this  month  of  June  1784/  says  the  Demoiselle  herself, 
in  her  (judicial)  Autobiography,  4 1  occupied  a  small  apart- 
4  ment  in  the  Rue  du  Jour,  Quartier  St.  Eustache.  I  was 
6  not  far  from  the  Garden  of  the  Palais-Royal ;  I  had  made 
cit  my  usual  promenade.'  For,  indeed,  the  real  God's-truth 
is,  I  was  a  Parisian  unfortunate-female,  with  moderate  cus- 
tom ;  and  one  must  go  where  his  market  lies.  4  I  frequently 
4  passed  three  or  four  hours  of  the  afternoon  there,  with  some 
4  women  of  my  acquaintance,  and  a  little  child  of  four  years 
4  old,  whom  I  was  fond  of,  whom  his  parents  willingly  trusted 
4  with  me.  I  even  went  thither  alone,  except  for  him,  when 
/other  company  failed. 

'  One  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  July  following,  I  was  at 

*  the  Palais-Royal :  my  whole  company,  at  the  moment,  was 
4  the  child  I  speak  of.  A  tall  young  man,  walking  alone, 
4  passes  several  times  before  me.  He  was  a  man  I  had  never 
4  seen.  He  looks  at  me  ;  he  looks  fixedly  at  me.  I  observe 
£even  that  always,  as  he  comes  near,  he  slackens  his  pace,  as 
4  if  to  survey  me  more  at  leisure.  A  chair  stood  vacant ;  two 
4  or  three  feet  from  mine.    He  seats  himself  there. 

4  Till  this  instant,  the  sight  of  the  young  man,  his  walks, 
'  his  approaches,  his  repeated  gazings,  had  made  no  impres- 
4  sion  on  me.  But  now  when  he  was  sitting  so  close  by,  I 
1  could  not  avoid  noticing  him.  His  eyes  ceased  not  to  wan- 
4  der  over  all  my  person.  His  air  becomes  earnest,  grave. 
4  An  unquiet  curiosity  appears  to  agitate  him.    He  seems  to 

*  measure  my  figure,  to  seize  by  turns  all  parts  of  my  physi- 
ognomy.'— He  finds  me  (but  whispers  not  a  syllable  of  it) 
tolerably  like,  both  in  person  and  profile ;  for  even  the  Abbo 
Georgel  says,  I  was  a  belle  courtisane. 

4  It  is  time  to  name  this  young  man  :  he  was  the  Sieur  d6 
Lamotte,  styling  himself  Comte  de  Lamotte.'  Who  doubts  it  ? 
He  praises  4  my  feeble  charms  ; '  expresses  a  wish  to  4  pay  hia 
addresses  to  me.'  I,  being  a  lone  spinster,  know  not  what  to 
say  ;  think  it  best  in  the  mean  while  to  retire.  Vain  precau* 
tion !    4 1  see  him  all  on  a  sudden  appear  in  my  apartment ! * 


THE  NECKLACE  IS  SOLD. 


51 


On  his  e  ninth  visit '  (for  he  was  always  civility  itself),  he 
talks  of  introducing  a  great  Court-lady,  by  whose  means  I 
may  even  do  her  Majesty  some  little  secret-service, — the 
reward  of  which  will  be  unspeakable.  In  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  silks  mysteriously  rustle  :  enter  the  creative  Dram- 
aturgist, Dame  styled  Countess  de  Lamotte ;  and  so  —  the 
too  intrusive  scientific  reader  has  now,  for  his  punishment, 
got  on  the  wrong-side  of  that  loveliest  Transparency  ;  finds 
nothing  but  grease-pots,  and  vapour  of  expiring  wicks ! 

The  Demoiselle  Gay  d'Oliva  may  once  more  sit,  or  stand, 
in  the  Palais-Royal,  with  such  custom  as  will  come.  In  due 
time,  she  shall  again,  but  with  breath  of  Terror,  be  blown 
upon  ;  and  blown  out  of  France  to  Brussels. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  NECKLACE  IS  SOLD. 

Autumn,  with  its  gray  moaning  winds  and  coating  of  red 
strewn  leaves,  invites  Courtiers  to  enjoy  the  charms  of  Na- 
ture ;  and  all  business  of  moment  stands  still.  Countess  de 
Lamotte,  while  everything  is  so  stagnant,  and  even  Boehmer 
has  locked-up  his  Necklace  and  his  hopes  for  the  season,  can 
drive,  with  her  Count  and  Euryalus  Villette,  down  to  native 
Bar-sur-Aube  ;  and  there  (in  virtue  of  a  Queen's  bounty) 
show  the  envious  a  Scion-of-royalty  re-graf ted  ;  and  make  them 
yellower  looking  on  it.  A  well- varnished  chariot,  with  the 
Arms  of  Valois  duly  painted  in  bend-sinister  ;  a  house  gal- 
lantly furnished,  bodies  gallantly  attired, — secure  them  the 
favourablest  reception  from  all  manner  of  men.  The  very 
Due  de  Penthievre  (Egalite's  father-in-law)  welcomes  our 
Lamotte,  with  that  urbanity  characteristic  of  his  high  station 
and  the  old  school.  Worth,  indeed,  makes  the  man,  or  wo- 
man ;  but  £  leather '  of  gig-straps,  and  £  prunella  '  of  gig-lin- 
ing, first  makes  it  go. 

The  great  creative  Dramaturgist  has  thus  let  down  her 
^Irop-scene  ;  and  only,  with  a  Letter  or  two  to  Saverne,  or 


52 


TEE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


even  a  visit  thither  (for  it  is  but  a  day's  drive  from  Bar\ 
keeps  up  a  due  modicum  of  intermediate  instrumental  music. 
She  needs  some  pause,  in  good  sooth,  to  collect  herself  a 
little  ;  for  the  last  act  and  grand  Catastrophe  is  at  hand. 
Two  fixed-ideas,  Cardinal's  and  Jeweller's,  a  negative  and  a 
positive,  have  felt  each  other  ;  stimulated  now  by  new  hope, 
are  rapidly  revolving  round  each  other,  and  approximating  ; 
like  two  flames,  are  stretching-out  long  fire-tongues  to  join 
and  be  one. 

Boehmer,  on  his  side,  is  ready  with  the  readiest ;  as  indeed 
he  has  been  these  four  long  years.  The  Countess,  it  is  true, 
will  have  neither  part  nor  lot  in  that  foolish  Cadeau  of  his, 
or  in  the  whole  foolish  Necklace  business  :  this  she  has,  in 
plain  words,  and  even  not  without  asperity,  due  to  a  bore  of 
such  magnitude,  given  him  to  know.  From  her,  neverthe- 
less, by  cunning  inference,  and  the  merest  accident  in  the 
world,  the  sly  Joaillier-Bijoutier  has  gleaned  thus  much,  that 
Monseigneur  de  Bohan  is  the  man. — Enough  !  Enough  ! 
Madame  shall  be  no  more  troubled.  Best  there,  in  hope, 
thou  Necklace  of  the  Devil ;  but,  O  Monseigneur,  be  thy  re- 
turn speedy ! 

Alas,  the  man  lives  not  that  would  be  speedier  than  Mon- 
seigneur, if  he  durst.  But  as  yet  no  gilt  Autograph  invites 
him,  permits  him  ;  the  few  gilt  Autographs  are  all  negatory, 
procrastinating.  Cabals  of  Court ;  forever  cabals  !  Nay  if  it 
be  not  for  some  Necklace,  or  other  such  crochet  or  necessity, 
who  knows  but  he  may  never  be  recalled  (so  fickle  is  woman- 
kind) ;  but  forgotten,  and  left  to  rot  here,  like  his  Bose,  into 
•pot-pourri  ?  Our  tutelary  Countess,  too,  is  shyer  in  this 
matter  than  we  ever  saw  her.  Nevertheless,  by  intense  skil- 
ful cross-questioning,  he  has  extorted  somewhat ;  sees  partly 
how  it  stands.  The  Queen's  Majesty  will  have  her  Necklace  ; 
for  when,  in  such  case,  had  not  woman  her  way  ?  The  Queen's 
Majesty  can  even  pay  for  it — by  instalments ;  but  then  the 
stingy  husband  !  Once  for  all,  she  will  not  be  seen  in  the 
business.  Now,  therefore,  Were  it,  or  were  it  not,  permissi- 
ble to  mortal  to  transact  it  secretly  in  her  stead  ?   That  is 


THE  NECKLACE  IS  SOLD. 


53 


the  question.  If  to  mortal,  then  to  Monseigneur.  Our  Count- 
ess has  even  ventured  to  hint  afar  off  at  Monseigneur  (kind 
Countess  !)  in  the  proper  quarter  ;  but  his  discretion  in  re- 
gard to  money-matters  is  doubted.  Discretion  ?  And  I  on 
the  Promenade  de  la  Rose  f — Explode  not,  O  Eminence  !  Trust 
will  spring  of  trial ;  thy  hour  is  coming. 

The  Lamottes  meanwhile  have  left  their  farewell  card  with 
all  the  respectable  classes  of  Bar-sur-Aube  ;  our  Dramatur- 
gist stands  again  behind  the  scenes  at  Paris.  How  is  it,  O 
Monseigneur,  that  she  is  still  so  shy  with  thee,  in  this  matter 
of  the  Necklace  ;  that  she  leaves  the  love-lorn  Latmian  shep- 
herd to  droop,  here  in  lone  Saverne,  like  weeping-ash,  in 
naked  winter,  on  his  Promenade  of  the  Rose,  with  vague 
commonplace  responses  that  his  hour  is  coming  ? — By  Heaven 
and  Earth  !  at  last,  in  late  January,  it  is  come.  Behold  it, 
this  new  gilt  Autograph  :  '  To  Paris,  on  a  small  business  of 
delicacy,  which  our  Countess  will  explain/— which  I  already 
know  !  To  Paris  !  Horses  ;  postilions  ;  beef-eaters  ! — And  so 
his  resuscitated  Eminence,  all  wrapt  in  furs,  in  the  pleasant- 
est  frost  (Abbe  Georgel  says,  un  beau  froid  de  Janvier),  over 
clear-jingling  highways  rolls  rapidly, — borne  on  the  bosom  of 
Dreams. 

O  Dame  de  Lamotte,  has  the  enchanted  Diamond  fruit  ri- 
pened, then  ?  Hast  thou  given  it  the  little  shake,  big  with  un- 
utterable fate  ? — I  ?  can  the  Dame  justly  retort :  Who  saw 
me  in  it  ?  The  reader,  therefore,  has  still  Three  scenic  Ex- 
hibitions to  look  at,  by  our  great  Dramaturgist  ;  then  the 
Fourth  and  last, — by  another  Author. 

To  us,  reflecting  how  offcenest  the  true  moving  force  in 
human  things  works  hidden  underground,  it  seems  small  mar- 
vel that  this  month  of  January  1785,  wherein  our  Countess  so 
little  courts  the  eye  of  the  vulgar  historian,  should  neverthe- 
less have  been  the  busiest  of  all  for  her  ;  especially  the  latter 
half  thereof. 

Wisely  eschewing  matters  of  Business  (which  she  could 
never  in  her  life  understand),  our  Countess  will  personally 


54 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


take  no  charge  of  that  bargain-making ;  leaves  it  all  to  her 
Majesty  and  the  gilt  Autographs.  Assiduous  Boehmer  never- 
theless is  in  frequent  close  conference  with  Monseigneur  :  the 
Paris  Palais-de-Strasbourg,  shut  to  the  rest  of  men,  sees  the 
Joaillier-Bijoutier,  with  eager  official  aspect,  come  and  go. 
The  grand  difficulty  is — must  we  say  it  ? — her  Majesty's  wil- 
ful whimsicality,  unacquaintance  with  Business.  She  posi- 
tively will  not  write  a  gilt  Autograph,  authorising  his  Eminence 
to  make  the  bargain  ;  but  writes  rather,  in  a  pettish  manner, 
tliat  the  thing  is  of  no  consequence,  and  can  be  given  up ! 
Thus  must  the  poor  Countess  dash  to  and  fro,  like  a  weaver's 
shuttle,  between  Paris  and  Versailles  ;  wear  her  horses  and 
nerves  to  pieces  ;  nay,  sometimes  in  the  hottest  haste,  wait 
many  hours  within  call  of  the  Palace,  considering  wrhat  can  be 
done  (with  none  but  Villette  to  bear  her  company), — till  the 
Queen's  whim  pass. 

At  length,  after  furious-driving  and  conferences  enough,  on 
the  29th  of  January,  a  middle  course  is  hit  on.  Cautious 
Boehmer  shall  write  out,  on  finest  paper,  his  terms ;  which 
are  really  rather  fair  :  Sixteen  hundred  thousands  livres  ;  to 
be  paid  in  five  equal  instalments  ;  the  first  this  day  six  months  ; 
the  other  four  from  three  months  to  three  months  ;  this  is 
what  Court  Jewellers,  Boehmer  and  Bassange,  on  the  one 
part,  and  Prince  Cardinal  Commendator  Louis  de  Kohan,  on 
the  other  part,  will  stand  to ;  witness  their  hands.  Which 
written  sheet  of  finest  paper  our  poor  Countess  must  again 
take  charge  of,  again  dash-off  with  to  Versailles  ;  and  there- 
from, after  trouble  unspeakable  (shared  in  only  by  the  faithful 
Villette,  of  Kascaldom),  return  with  it,  bearing  this  most 
precious  marginal  note,  £  Bon — Marie-Antoinette  de  France,9  in 
the  Autograph-hand  !  Happy  Cardinal !  this  thou  shalt  keep 
in  the  innermost  of  all  thy  repositories.  Boehmer  meanwhile, 
secret  as  Death,  shall  tell  no  man  that  he  has  sold  his  Neck- 
lace ;  or  if  much  pressed  for  an  actual  sight  of  the  same,  con- 
fess that  it  is  sold  to  the  Favourite  Sultana  of  the  Grand  Turk 
for  the  time  being.1 

Thus,  then,  do  the  smoking  Lamotte  horses  at  length  get 
1  Campan. 


THE  NECKLACE  VANISHES. 


55 


rubbed  down,  and  feel  the  taste  of  oats,  after  midnight  ;  the 
Lamotte  Countess  can  also  gradually  sink  into  needful  slum- 
ber, perhaps  not  unbroken  by  dreams.  On  the  morrow  the 
bargain  shall  be  concluded  ;  next  day  the  Necklace  be  deliv- 
ered, on  Monseigneur's  receipt. 

Will  the  reader,  therefore,  be  pleased  to  glance  at  the  fol- 
lowing two  Life-Pictures,  Keal-Phantasmagories,  or  whatever 
we  may  call  them  :  they  are  the  two  first  of  those  Three  scenic 
real-poetic  exhibitions,  brought  about  by  our  Dramaturgist  : 
short  Exhibitions,  but  essential  ones. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  NECKLACE  VANISHES. 

It  is  the  first  day  of  February  ;  that  grand  day  of  Delivery. 
The  Sieur  Boehmer  is  in  the  Court  of  the  Palais  de  Stras- 
bourg ;  his  look  mysterious-official,  and  though  much  ema- 
ciated, radiant  with  enthusiasm.  The  Seine  has  missed  him  ; 
though  lean,  he  will  fatten  again,  and  live  through  new  en- 
terprises. 

Singular,  were  we  not  used  to  it :  the  name  "  Boehmer,"  as 
it  passes  upwards  and  inwards,  lowers  all  halberts  of  Hey  dues 
in  perpendicular  rows :  the  historical  eye  beholds  him,  bow- 
ing low,  with  plenteous  smiles,  in  the  plush  Saloon  of  Audi- 
ence. Will  it  please  Mon seigneur,  then,  to  do  the  ne-plus- 
ultra  of  Necklaces  the  honour  of  looking  at  it?  A  piece  of 
Art,  which  the  Universe  cannot  parallel,  shall  be  parted  with 
(Necessity  compels  Court-Jewellers)  at  that  ruinously  low 
sum.  They,  the  Court-Jewellers,  shall  have  much  ado  to 
weather  it ;  but  their  work,  at  least,  will  find  a  fit  Wearer, 
and  go  down  to  juster  posterity.  Monseigneur  will  merely 
have  the  condescension  to  sign  this  Receipt  of  Delivery  :  all 
the  rest,  her  Highness  the  Sultana  of  the  Sublime  Porte  has 
settled  it.— Here  the  Court- Jeweller,  with  his  joyous  though 
now  much-emaciated  face,  ventures  on  a  faint  knowing  smile  ; 
to  which,  in  the  lofty  dissolute-serene  of  Monseigneur's,  some 


56 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


twinkle  of  permission  could  not  but  respond. — This  is  the 
First  of  those  Three  real-poetic  Exhibitions,  brought  about 
by  our  Dramaturgist, — with  perfect  success. 

It  was  said,  long  afterwards,  that  Monseigneur  should  have 
known,  and  even  that  Boehmer  should  have  known,  her 
Highness  the  Sultana's  marginal  note,  her  '  Right — Marie  An- 
toinette of  France,'  to  be  a  forgery  and  mockery  :  the  '  rf 
Finance'  was  fatal  to  it.  Easy  talking,  easy  criticising  !  Bat 
how  are  two  enchanted  men  to  know  ;  two  men  with  a  fixed- 
idea  each,  a  negative  and  a  positive,  rushing  together  to  neu- 
tralise each  other  in  rapture  ? — Enough,  Monseigneur  has  the 
ne-plus-ultra  of  Necklaces,  conquered  by  man's  valour  and 
woman's  wit ;  and  rolls  off  with  it,  in  mysterious  speed,  to 
Versailles, — triumphant  as  a  Jason  with  his  Golden  Fleece. 

The  Second  grand  scenic  Exhibition  by  our  Dramaturgic 
Countess  occurs  in  her  own  apartment  at  Versailles,  so  early 
as  the  following  night.  It  is  a  commodious  apartment,  with 
alcove;  and  the  alcove  has  a  glass  door.1  Monseigneur  en- 
ters,— with  a  follower  bearing  a  mysterious  Casket,  who  care- 
fully deposits  it,  and  then  respectfully  withdraws.  It  is  the 
Necklace  itself  in  all  its  glory !  Our  tutelary  Countess,  and 
Monseigneur,  and  we,  can  at  leisure  admire  the  queenly  Tal- 
isman ;  congratulate  ourselves  that  the  painful  conquest  of  it 
is  achieved. 

But,  hist !  A  knock,  mild  but  decisive,  as  from  one  knock- 
ing with  authority  !  Monseigneur  and  we  retire  to  our  al- 
cove ;  there,  from  behind  our  glass  screen,  observe  what 
passes.  Who  comes?  The  door  flung  open  :  de par  la  Heine! 
Behold  him,  Monseigneur  :  he  enters  with  grave,  respectful, 
yet  official  air  ;  worthy  Monsieur  Queen's-valet  Lesclaux,  the 
same  who  escorted  our  tutelary  Countess,  that  moonlight 
night,  from  the  back  apartments  of  Versailles.  Said  we  not, 
thou  wouldst  see  him  once  more  ? — Methinks,  again,  spite  of 
his  Queen's-uniform,  he  has  much  the  features  of  Villette  of 
Rascaldom  ! — Rascaldom  or  Valetdom  (for  to  the  blind  all 
colours  are  the  same),  he  has,  with  his  grave,  respectful,  yet 
official  air,  received  the  Casket,  and  its  priceless  contents ; 
1  Georgel,  &c. 


SCENE  THIRD :  BY  DAME  DE  LAMOTTE.  57 

with  fit  injunction,  with  fit  engagements  ;  and  retires  bowing 
low. 

Thus  softly,  silently,  like  a  very  Dream,  flits  away  our  solid 
Necklace — through  the  Horn  Gate  of  Dreams ! 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

SCENE  THIRD  :  BY  DAME  DE  LAMOTTE. 

Now  too,  in  these  same  clays  (as  he  can  afterwards  prove  by 
affidavit  of  Landlords)  arrives  Count  Cagliostro  himself,  from 
Lyons  !  No  longer  by  predictions  in  cipher  ;  but  by  his  liv- 
ing voice,  often  in  wrapt  communion  with  the  unseen  world, 
'  with  Caraffe  and  four  candles  ; '  by  his  greasy  prophetic  bull- 
dog face,  said  to  be  the  '  most  perfect  quack-face  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,'  can  we  assure  ourselves  that  all  is  well ;  that 
all  will  turn  'to  the  glory  of  Mon seigneur,  to  the  good  of 
France,  and  of  mankind/  1  and  of  Egyptain  masonry.  '  Tokay 
flows  like  water  ; '  our  charming  Countess,  with  her  piquancy 
of  face,  is  sprightlier  that  ever  ;  enlivens  with  the  brightest 
sallies,  with  the  adroitest  flatteries  to  all,  those  suppers  of  the 
gods.  O  Nights,  O  Suppers — too  good  to  last !  Nay,  now 
also  occurs  another  and  Third  scenic  Exhibition,  fitted  by  its 
radiance  to  dispel  from  Monseigneur's  soul  the  last  trace  of 
care. 

Why  the  Queen  does  not,  even  yet,  openly  receive  me  at 
Court  ?  Patience,  Monseigneur  !  Thou  little  knowest  those 
too  intricate  cabals;  and  how  she  still  but  works  at  them 
silently,  with  royal  suppressed  fury,  like  a  royal  lioness  only 
delivering  herself  from  the  hunter's  toils.  Meanwhile,  is  not 
thy  work  done  ?  The  Necklace,  she  rejoices  over  it ;  beholds, 
many  times  in  secret,  her  Juno-neck  mirrored  back  the  love- 
lier for  it, — as  our  tutelar  Countess  can  testify.  Come  to- 
morrow to  the  (Eil-de-Boeuf ;  there  see  with  eyes,  in  high 
noon,  as  already  in  deep  midnight  thou  hast  seen,  whether  in 
her  royal  heart  there  were  delay. 

1  Georgel,  &c. 


58 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


Let  us  stand,  then,  with  Monseigneur,  in  that  (Eil-de-Bozuf, 
in  the  Versailles  Palace  Gallery ;  for  all  well-dressed  persons 
are  admitted  :  there  the  Loveliest,  in  pomp  of  royalty,  will  walk 
to  mass.  The  world  is  all  in  pelisses  and  winter  furs ;  cheerful, 
clear, — with  noses  tending  to  blue.  A  lively  many-voiced  hum 
plays  fitful,  hither  and  thither  :  of  sledge  parties  and  Court 
parties  ;  frosty  state  of  the  weather  ;  stability  of  M.  de  Calo li- 
ne ;  Majesty's  looks  yesterday  ; — such  hum  as  always,  in  these 
sacred  Court-spaces,  since  Louis  le  Grand  made  and  conse- 
crated them,  has,  with  more  or  less  impetuosity,  agitated  our 
common  Atmosphere. 

Ah,  through  that  long  high  Gallery  what  Figures  have 
passed — and  vanished  !  Louvois,  — with  the  Great  King,  flash- 
ing fire  glances  on  the  fugitive  ;  in  his  red  right  hand  a  pair 
of  tongs,  which  pious  Maintenon  hardly  holds  back :  Louvois, 
where  art  thou  ?  Ye  Marechaux  de  France  ?  Ye  unmention- 
able-women of  past  generations  ?  Here  also  was  it  that  rolled 
and  rushed  the  'sound,  absolutely  like  thunder,'1  of  Courtier 
hosts  ;  in  that  dark  hour  when  the  signal-light  in  Louis  the 
Fifteenth  s  chamber-window  was  blown  out ;  and  his  ghastly 
infectious  Corpse  lay  lone,  forsaken  on  its  tumbled  death-lair, 
'  in  the  hands  of  some  poor  women  ; '  and  the  Courtier-hosts 
rushed  from  the  Deep-fallen  to  hail  the  New-risen  !  These  too 
rushed,  and  passed  ;  and  their  £  sound,  absolutely  like  thunder,' 
became  silence.  Figures?  Men?  They  are  fast-fleeting 
Shadows  ;  fast  chasing  each  other :  it  is  not  a  Palace,  but  a 
Caravansera. — Monseigneur  (with  thy  too  much  Tokay  over- 
night) !  cease  puzzling  :  here  thou  art,  this  blessed  February 
day : — the  Peerless,  will  she  turn  lightly  that  high  head  of 
hers,  and  glance  aside  into  the  (Eil-de-Boeuf,  in  passing? 
Please  Heaven,  she  will.  To  our  tutelary  Countess,  at  least, 
she  promised  it ; 2  though,  alas,  so  fickle  is  womankind ! — 

Hark  !  Clang  of  opening  doors  !  She  issues,  like  the  Moon 
in  silver  brightness,  down  the  Eastern  steeps.  La  Berne  vient ! 
"What  a  figure !  I  (with  the  aid  of  glasses)  discern  her.  O 
Fairest,  Peerless !  Let  the  hum  of  minor  discoursing  hush 
itself  wholly  ;  and  only  one  successive  rolling  peal  of  Vive  la 
1  Campan.  2  See  Georgcl. 


THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  PAID. 


59 


Heine,  like  the  movable  radiance  of  a  train  of  fire-works,  irra- 
diate her  path. — Ye  Immortals  !  She  does,  she  beckons,  turns 
her  head  this  way  ! — "Does  she  not?"  says  Countess  de  La- 
motte. — Versailles,  the  (Eil-de-Boeuf,  and  all  men  and  things 
are  drowned  in  a  Sea  of  Light  ;  Monseigneur  and  that  high 
beckoning  Head  are  alone,  with  each  other  in  the  Universe. 

O  Eminence,  what  a  beatific  vision  !  Enjoy  it,  blest  as  the 
gods  ;  ruminate  and  re-enjoy  it,  with  full  soul :  it  is  the  last 
provided  for  thee.  Too  soon,  in  the  course  of  these  six 
months,  shall  thy  beatific  vision,  like  Mirza's  vision,  gradually 
melt  away  ;  and  only  oxen  and  sheep  be  grazing  in  its  place  ; 
— and  thou,  as  a  doomed  Nebuchadnezzar,  be  grazing  with 
them. 

"  Does  she  not  ?  "  said  the  Countess  de  Lamotte.  That  it 
is  a  habit  of  hers  ;  that  hardly  a  day  passes  without  her  doing 
it :  this  the  Countess  de  Lamotte  did  not  say. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  PAID. 

Here,  then,  the  specially  Dramaturgic  labours  of  Countess 
de  Lamotte  may  be  said  to  terminate.  The  rest  of  her  life 
is  Histrionic  merely,  or  Histrionic  and  Critical ;  as,  indeed, 
what  had  all  the  former  part  of  it  been  but  a  Hypocrisia,  a 
more  or  less  correct  Playing  of  Parts  ?  O  4  Mrs.  Eacing-both- 
ways '  (as  old  Bunyan  said),  what  a  talent  hadst  thou !  No 
Proteus  ever  took  so  many  shapes,  no  Chameleon  so  often 
changed  colour.  One  thing  thou  wert  to  Monseigneur  ;  an- 
other thing  to  Cagliostro,  and  Villette  of  Rascaldom  ;  a  third 
thing  to  the  World,  in  printed  Memoires  ;  a  fourth  thing  to 
Philippe  Egalite  :  all  things  to  all  men  ! 

Let  her,  however,  we  say,  but  manage  now  to  act  her  own 
parts,  with  proper  Histrionic  illusion ;  and,  by  Critical 
glosses,  give  her  past  Dramaturgy  the  fit  aspect,  to  Monseign- 
eur and  others :  this  henceforth,  and  not  new  Dramaturgy, 
includes  her  whole  task.    Dramatic  Scenes,  in  plenty,  will 


60 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


follow  of  themselves  ;  especially  that  Fourth  and  final  Scene, 
spoken  of  above  as  by  another  Author, — by  Destiny  itself. 

For  in  the  Lamotte  Theatre,  so  different  from  our  common 
Pasteboard  one,  the  Play  goes  on,  even  when  the  Machinist 
has  left  it.  Strange  enough  :  those  Air-images,  which  from 
her  Magic-Ian  tern  she  hung  out  on  the  empty  bosom  of  Night, 
have  clutched  hold  of  this  solid-seeming  World  (which  some 
call  the  Material  World,  as  if  that  made  it  more  a  Beal  one), 
and  will  tumble  hither  and  thither  the  solidest  masses  there. 
Yes,  reader,  so  goes  it  here  below.  What  thou  callest  a 
Brain-web,  or  mere  illusive  Nothing,  is  it  not  a  web  of  the 
Brain  ;  of  the  Spirit  which  inhabits  the  Brain  ;  and  which,  in 
this  World  (rather,  as  I  think,  to  be  named  the  Spiritual  one), 
very  naturally  moves  and  tumbles  hither  and  thither  all 
things  it  meets  with,  in  Heaven  or  in  Earth  ? — So  too,  the 
Necklace,  though  we  saw  it  vanish  through  the  Horn  Gate  of 
Dreams,  and  in  my  opinion  man  shall  never  more  behold  it, — - 
yet  its  activity  ceases  not,  nor  will.  For  no  Act  of  a  man,  no 
Thing  (how  much  less  the  man  himself  ! )  is  extinguished 
when  it  disappears  :  through  considerable  times  it  still  visibly 
works,  though  done  and  vanished  ;  I  have  known  a  done 
thing  work  visibly  Three  Thousand  Years  and  more  :  invisibly, 
unrecognised,  all  done  things  work  through  endless  times 
and  years.  Such  a  Hypermagical  is  this  our  poor  old  Beal 
world ;  which  some  take  upon  them  to  pronounce  effete,  pro- 
saic !  Friend,  it  is  thyself  that  art  all  withered  up  into  effete 
Prose,  dead  as  ashes :  know  this  (I  advise  thee)  ;  and  seek 
passionately,  with  a  passion  little  short  of  desperation,  to  have 
it  remedied. 

Meanwhile,  what  will  the  feeling  heart  think  to  learn  that 
Mon  seigneur  deBohan,  as  we  prophesied,  again  experiences  the 
fickleness  of  a  Court ;  that,  notwithstanding  the  beatific  visions, 
at  noon  and  midnight,  the  Queen's  Majesty,  with  the  light  in- 
gratitude of  her  sex,  flies  off  at  a  tangent  ;  and,  far  from  oust- 
ing his  detested  and  detesting  rival,  Minister  Breteuii,  and 
openly  delighting  to  honour  Monseigneur,  will  hardly  vouch- 
safe him  a  few  gilt  Autographs,  and  those  few  of  the  most 
capricious,  suspicious,  soul-confusing  tenour  ?  What  terrifico- 


THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  PAID,  61 


absurd  explosions,  which  scarcely  Cagliostro,  with  Caraffe 
and  four  candles,  can  still  ;  how  many  deep-weighed  Humble 
Petitions,  Explanations,  Expostulations,  penned  with  fervidest 
eloquence,  with  craftiest  diplomacy, — all  delivered  by  our  tute- 
lar Countess  :  in  vain  ! — O  Cardinal,  with  wThat  a  huge  iron 
mace,  like  Guy  of  Warwick's,  thou  smitest  Phantasms  in  two, 
which  close  again,  take  shape  again  ;  and  only  thrashest  the 
air  ! 

One  comfort,  however,  is  that  the  Queen's  Majesty  has  com- 
mitted herself.  The  Rose  of  Trianon,  and  what  may  pertain 
thereto,  lies  it  not  here  ?  That  £  Eight — Marie  Antoinette  of 
France,'  too  ;  and  the  30th  of  July,  firsfc-instalment-day  com- 
ing ?  She  shall  be  brought  to  terms,  good  Eminence  !  Order 
horses  and  beef-eaters  for  Saverne  ;  there,  ceasing  all  written 
or  oral  communication,  starve  her  into  capitulating.1  It  is 
the  bright  May  month :  his  Eminence  again  somnambulates 
the  Promenade  de  la  Rose  ;  but  now  with  grim  dry  eyes  ;  and, 
from  time  to  time,  terrifically  stamping. 

But  who  is  this  that  I  see  mounted  on  costliest  horse  and 
horse-gear ;  betting  at  Newmarket  Races  ;  though  he  can 
speak  no  English  word,  and  only  some  Chevalier  O'Niel,  some 
Capuchin  Macdermot,  from  Bar-sur-Aube,  interprets  his 
French  into  the  dialect  of  the  Sister  Island  ?  Few  days  ago 
I  observed  him  walking  in  Fleet-street,  thoughtfully  through 
Temple  Bar  ; — in  deep  treaty  with  Jeweller  Jeffreys,  with 
Jeweller  Grey,2  for  the  sale  of  Diamonds  :  such  a  lot  as  one 
may  boast  of.  A  tall  handsome  man  ;  with  ex-military  whis- 
kers ;  with  a  look  of  troubled  gaiety,  and  rascalism  :  you  think 
it  is  the  Sieur  self-styled  Count  de  Lamotte  ;  nay  the  man  him- 
self confesses  it !  The  Diamonds  were  a  present  to  his  Count- 
ess,— from  the  still-bountiful  Queen. 

Vilette  too,  has  he  completed  his  sales  at  Amsterdam  ?  Him 
I  shall  by  and  by  behold  ;  not  betting  at  Newmarket,  but 

1  See  Lamotte. 

2  Grey  lived  in  No.  13  New  Bond  Street ;  Jeffreys  in  Piccadilly  (Ro- 
han's Memoire  pour :  see  also  Count  de  Larnotte's  Narrative,  in  the  Me- 
moires  Justificatifs).  Rohan  says,  4  Jeffreys  bought  more  than  10,000?. 
worth. ' 


02 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


drinking  wine  and  ardent  spirits  in  the  Taverns  of  Geneva* 
Ill-gotten  wealth  endures  not ;  Rascaldom  has  no  strong-box. 
Countess  de  Lamotte,  for  what  a  set  of  cormorant  scoundrels 
hast  thou  laboured,  art  thou  still  labouring  ! 

Still  laboring,  we  may  say  :  for  as  the  fatal  30th  of  July  ap* 
proaches,  what  is  to  be  looked  for  but  universal  Earthquake  ; 
Mud-explosion  that  will  blot-out  the  face  of  Nature?  Me- 
thinks,  stood  I  in  thy  pattens,  Dame  de  Lamotte,  I  would  cut 
and  run. — "  Run  !  "  exclaimes  she,  with  a  toss  of  indignant 
astonishment :  "  Calumniated  Innocence  run  ?  "  For  it  m 
singular  how  in  some  minds,  which  are  mere  bottomless  '  cha- 
otic whirlpools  of  gilt  shreds/  there  is  no  deliberate  Lying 
whatever ;  and  nothing  is  either  believed  or  disbelieved,  but 
only  (with  some  transient  suitable  Histrionic  emotion)  spoken 
and  heard. 

Had  Dame  de  Lamotte  a  certain  greatness  of  character, 
then  ;  at  least,  a  strength  of  transcendent  audacity,  amounting 
to  the  bastard-heroic  ?  Great,  indubitably  great,  is  her  Dra- 
maturgic and  Histrionic  talent  ;  but  as  for  the  rest,  one 
must  answer,  with  reluctance,  No.  Mrs.  Facing-both-ways  is 
a  6  Spark  of  vehement  Life,'  but  the  farthest  in  the  world  from  a 
brave  woman  :  she  did  not,  in  any  case,  show  the  bravery  of 
a  woman  ;  did,  in  many  cases,  show  the  mere  screaming  trepi- 
dation of  one.  Her  grand  quality  is  rather  to  be  reckoned 
negative  :  the '  untamableness '  as  of  a  fly  ;  the  £  wax-cloth  dress ' 
from  which  so  much  ran  clown  like  water.  Small  sparrows, 
as  I  learn,  have  been  trained  to  fire  cannon  ;  but  would  make 
poor  Artillery  Officers  in  a  Waterloo.  Thou  dost  not  call  that 
Cork  a  strong  swimmer  ?  Which  nevertheless  shoots,  without 
hurt,  the  Falls  of  Niagara ;  defies  the  thunderbolt  itself  to 
sink  it,  for  more  than  a  moment.  Without  intellect,  imagina- 
tion, power  of  attention,  or  any  spiritual  faculty,  how  brave 
were  one, — with  fit  motive  for  it,  such  as  hunger !  How  much 
might  one  dare,  by  the  simplest  of  methods,  by  not  thinking 
of  it,  not  knowing  it ! — Besides,  is  not  Cagliostro,  foolish 
blustering  Quack,  still  here  ?  No  scapegoat  had  ever  broader 
back.  The  Cardinal  too,  has  he  not  money  ?  Queen's  Majes* 
ty,  even  in  effigy,  shall  not  be  insulted  ;  the  Soubises,  De  Mar* 


THE  NECKLACE  CANNOT  BE  PAID. 


63 


sans,  and  high  and  puissant  Cousins,  must  huddle  the  matter 
up  :  Calumniated  Innocence,  in  the  most  universal  of  Earth- 
quakes, will  find  some  crevice  to  whisk  through,  as  she  has  so 
often  done. 

But  all  this  while  how  fares  it  with  his  Eminence,  left  som- 
nambulating  the  Promenade  de  la  Rose  ;  and  at  times  trucu- 
lently stamping?  Alas,  ill,  and  ever  worse.  The  starving 
method,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  brings  no  capitulation  ; 
brings  only,  after  a  month's  waiting,  our  tutelary  Countess, 
with  a  gilt  Autograph,  indeed,  and  '  all  wrapt  in  silk  threads, 
sealed  where  they  cross,' — but  which  we  read  with  curses. 1 

We  must  back  again  to  Paris  ;  there  pen  new  Expostula- 
tions ;  which  our  unwearied  Countess  will  take  charge  of,  but, 
alas,  can  get  no  answer  to.  However,  is  not  the  30th  of  July 
coming? — Behold,  on  the  19th  of  that  month,  the  shortest, 
most  careless  of  Autographs :  with  some  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  of  real  money  in  it,  to  pay  the — interest  of  the  first  in- 
stalment ;  the  principal,  of  some  thirty  thousand,  not  being 
at  the  moment  perfectly  convenient !  Hungry  Boehmer 
makes  large  eyes  at  this  proposal ;  will  accept  the  money,  but 
only  as  part  of  payment ;  the  man  is  positive  :  a  Court  of 
Justice,  if  no  other  means,  shall  get  him  the  remainder.  What 
now  is  to  be  done  ? 

Farmer-general  Monsieur  Saint- James,  Cagliostro's  disciple, 
and  wet  with  Tokay,  will  cheerfully  advance  the  sum  needed 
— for  her  Majesty's  sake  ;  thinks,  however  (with  all  his  To- 
kay), it  were  good  to  speak  with  her  Majesty  first.— I  observe, 
meanwhile,  the  distracted  hungry  Boehmer  driven  hither  and 
thither,  not  by  his  fixed  idea  ;  alas,  no,  but  by  the  far  more 
frightful  ghost  thereof, — since  no  payment  is  forthcoming. 
He  stands,  one  day,  speaking  with  a  Queen's  waiting-woman 
(Madame  Campan  herself),  in  ca  thunder-shower,  which 
neither  of  them  notice,' — so  thunderstruck  are  they.2  What 
weather-symptoms  for  his  Eminence  ! 


The  30th  of  July  has  come,  but  no  money  ;  the  30th  is 
gone,  but  no  money.    O  Eminence,  what  a  grim  farewell  of 

1  See  Lamotte.  2  Campan. 


64 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


July  is  this  of  1785  !  The  last  July  went  out  with  airs  from 
Heaven,  and  Trianon  Koses.  These  August  days,  are  they  not 
worse  than  dog's  days  ;w  orthy  to  be  blotted  out  from  all  Alma- 
nacs? Boehmer  and  Bassange  thou  canst  still  see;  but  only 
4  return  from  them  swearing/  1  Nay,  what  new  misery  is  this  ? 
Our  tutelary  Histrionic  Countess  enters,  distraction  in  her 
eyes;2  she  has  just  been  at  Versailles;  the  Queen's  Majesty, 
with  a  levity  of  caprice  which  we  dare  not  trust  ourselves  to 
characterise,  declares  plainly  that  she  will  deny  ever  having 
got  the  Necklace  ;  ever  having  had,  with  his  Eminence,  any 
transaction  whatsoever  ! — Mud-explosion  without  parallel  in 
volcanic  annals. — The  Palais  de  Strasbourg  appears  to  be  beset 
with  spies  ;  the  Lamottes,  for  the  Count  too  is  here,  are  pack- 
ing-up  for  Bar-sur-Aube.  Trie  Sieur  Boehmer,  has  he  fallen 
insane?    Or  into  communication  with  Minister  Breteuil? — 

And  -so,  distractedly  and  distractively,  to  the  sound  of  all 
Discords  in  Nature,  opens  that  Fourth,  final  Scenic  Exhibi- 
tion, composed  by  Destiny. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SCENE  FOURTH  :  BY  DESTINY. 

It  is  Assumption-day,  the  15th  of  August.  Don  thy  pon- 
tificalia, Grand-Almoner  ;  crush  down  these  hideous  tempo- 
ralities out  of  sight.  In  any  case,  smoothe  thy  countenance 
into  some  sort  of  lofty-dissolute  serene  :  thou  hast  a  thing 
they  call  worshipping  God  to  enact,  thyself  the  first  actor. 

The  Grand-Almoner  has  done  it.  He  is  in  Versailles 
(Eil-de-Bceuf  Gallery  ;  where  male  and  female  Peerage,  and 
ail  Noble  France  in  gala  various  and  glorious  as  the  rainbow, 
waits  only  the  signal  to  begin  worshipping :  on  the  serene 
of  his  lofty-dissolute  countenance,  there  can  nothing  be  read.3 
By  Heaven  !  he  is  sent  for  to  the  Boyal  Apartment ! 

1  Lamotte.  2  Georgel. 

3  This  is  Bette  d'Etienville's  description  of  Mm :  '  A  handsome  man, 
of  fifty  ;  with  high  complexion  ;  hair  white -gray,  and  the  front  of  the 
head  bald  :  of  high  stature  ;  carriage  noble  and  easy,  though  burdened 
with  a  certain  degree  of  corpulency  ;  who,  I  never  doubted,  was  Mon- 
sieur de  Rohan.7    (First  Memoir e pour.) 


SCENE  FOURTH:  BY  DESTINY. 


65 


He  returns  with  the  old  lofty-dissolute  look,  inscrutably 
serene  :  has  his  turn  for  favour  actually  come,  then  ?  Those 
fifteen  long  years  of  soul's  travail  are  to  be  rewarded  by 
a  birth? — Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Breteuil  issues;  great  in 
his  pride  of  place,  in  this  the  crowning  moment  of  his  life. 
With  one  radiant  glance,  Breteuil  summons  the  Officer  on 
Guard  ;  with  another,  fixes  Monseigneur  :  "De par  leBoi,  Mon- 
seigneur  :  you  are  arrested  !  At  your  risk,  Officer  ! "  —  Cur- 
tains as  of  pitch-black  whirlwind  envelop  Monseigneur ; 
whirl  off  with  him, —  to  outer  darkness.  Versailles  Gallery 
explodes  aghast ;  as  if  Guy  Fawkes's  Plot  had  burst  under  it. 
"  The  Queen's  Majesty  was  weeping,"  whisper  some.  There 
will  be  no  Assumption-service ;  or  such  a  one  as  was  never 
celebrated  since  Assumption  came  in  fashion. 

Europe,  then,  shall  ring  with  it  from  side  to  side  !  —  But 
why  rides  that  Heyduc  as  if  all  the  Devils  drove  him  ?  It 
is  Monseigneur's  Heyduc  :  Monseigneur  spoke  three  words 
in  German  to  him,  at  the  door  of  his  Versailles  Hotel ;  even 
handed  him  a  slip  of  writing,  which,  with  borrowed  Pencil, 
£  in  his  red  square  cap/  he  had  managed  to  prepare  on  the 
way  thither.1  To  Paris !  To  the  Palais-Cardinal !  The 
horse  dies  on  reaching  the  stable  ;  the  Heyduc  swoons  on 
reaching  the  cabinet  :  but  his  slip  of  writing  fell  from  his 
hand  ;  and  I  (says  the  Abbe  Georgel)  was  there.  The  red 
Portfolio,  containing  all  the  gilt  Autographs,  is  burnt  utterly, 
with  much  else,  before  Breteuil  can  arrive  for  apposition  of 
the  seals  !  —  Whereby  Europe,  in  ringing  from  side  to  side, 
must  worry  itself  with  guessing :  and  at  this  hour,  on  this 
paper,  sees  the  matter  in  such  an  interesting  clear-obscure. 

Soon  Count  Cagliostro  and  his  Seraphic  Countess  go  to 
join  Monseigneur,  in  State  Prison.  In  few  days,  follows 
Dame  de  Lamotte,  from  Bar-sur-Aube ;  Demoiselle  d'Oliva  by- 
and-by,  from  Brussels  ;  Vill^tte-de-Betaux,  from  his  Swiss 
retirement,  in  the  taverns  of  Geneva.  The  Bastille  opens  its 
iron  bosom  to  them  all. 


60 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


CHAPTER  LAST. 

MISSA  EST. 

Thus,  then,  the  Diamond  Necklace  having,  on  the  one 
hand,  vanished  through  the  Horn  Gate  of  Dreams,  and  so, 
under  the  pincers  of  Nisus  Lamotte  and  Euryalus  Villette, 
lost  its  sublunary  individuality  and  being  ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  all  that  trafficked  in  it,  sitting  now  safe  under  lock 
and  key,  that  justice  may  take  cognisance  of  them, — our  en- 
gagement in  regard  to  the  matter  is  on  the  point  of  termi- 
nating.  That  extraordinary  '  Proces  du  Collier,  Necklace 
Trial,'  spinning  itself  through  Nine  other  ever-memorable 
Months,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  hundred  and  eighty-seven 
assembled  Payiementiers,  and  of  all  Quidnuncs,  Journalists, 
Anecdotists,  Satirists,  in  both  Hemispheres,  is,  in  every 
sense,  a  '  Celebrated  Trial,  and  belongs  to  Publishers  of  such. 
How,  by  innumerable  confrontations  and  expiscatory  ques- 
tions, through  entanglements,  doublings  and  windings  that 
fatigue  eye  and  soul,  this  most  involute  of  Lies  is  finally 
winded  off  to  the  scandalous-ridiculous  cinder-heart  of  it, 
let  others  relate. 

Meanwhile,  during  these  Nine  ever-memorable  Months,  till 
they  terminate  late  at  night  precisely  with  the  May  of  1786, 1 
how  many  fugitive  leaves,  quizzical,  imaginative,  or  at  least 
mendacious,  were  flying  about  in  Newspapers  ;  or  stitched 
together  as  Pamphlets ;  and  what  heaps  of  others  were  left 
creeping  in  Manuscript,  we  shall  not  say  ; — having,  indeed, 
no  complete  Collection  of  them,  and  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  little  to  do  with  such  Collection.  Nevertheless, 
searching  for  some  fit  Capital  of  the  composite  order,  to 
adorn  adequately  the  now  finished  singular  Pillar  of  our 
Narrative,  what  can  suit  us  better  than  the  following,  so  far 
as  we  know,  yet  unedited, 

1  On  the  31st  of  May  1786,  sentence  was  pronounced:  abont  ten  at 
right,  the  Cardinal  got  out  of  the  Bastille  ;  large  mobs  hurrahing  round 
him,— out  of  spleen  to  the  Court.    (See  Georgel.) 


MIS8A  EST. 


Occasional  Discourse,  by  Count  Alessandro  Cagliostro,  Thauma* 
turgist,  Prophet  and  Arch- Quack  ;  delivered  in  the  Bastille : 
Year  of  Lucifer,  5789  ;  of  the  Mahometan  Hegira  from 
Mecca,  1201 ;  of  the  Cagliostric  Hegira  from  Palermo,  24  ; 
of  the  Vulgar  Era,  1785. 

'Fellow  Scoundrels, — An  unspeakable  Intrigue,  spun  from 
c  the  soul  of  that  Circe-Megaera,  by  our  voluntary  or  involun- 
'  tary  help,  has  assembled  us  all,  if  not  under  one  roof-tree, 
6  yet  within  one  grim  iron-bound  ring-wall.  For  an  appointed 
'  number  of  months,  in  the  ever-rolling  flow  of  Time,  we,  being 
c  gathered  from  the  four  winds,  did  by  Destiny  work  together 

*  in  body  corporate  ;  and  joint  labourers  in  a  Transaction  al- 
'  ready  famed  over  the  Globe,  obtain  unity  of  Name,  like  the 
'Argonauts  of  old,  as  Conquerers  of  the  Diamond  Necklace. 
'  Erelong  it  is  done  (for  ring-walls  hold  not  captive  the  free 
'  Scoundrel  forever)  ;  and  we  disperse  again,  over  wide  te*- 
'  restrial  Space  ;  some  of  us,  it  may  be,  over  the  very  marches 
'  of  Space.  Our  Act  hangs  indissoluble  together  ;  floats  won-* 
£  drous  in  the  older  and  older  memory  of  men  :  while  we  tha 
'  little  band  of  Scoundrels,  who  saw  each  other,  now  hover  so 
■  far  asunder,  to  see  each  other  no  more,  if  not  once  more 
'  only  on  the  universal  Doomsday,  the  Last  of  the  Days  ! 

'  In  such  interesting  moments,  while  we  stand  within  the 
'  verge  of  parting,  and  have  not  yet  parted,  methinks  it  were 
'well  here,  in  these  sequestered  Spaces,  to  institute  a  few 

*  general  reflections.  Me,  as  a  public  speaker,  the  Spirit  of 
6  Masonry,  of  Philosophy,  and  Philanthropy,  and  even  of 
'Prophecy,  blowing  mysterious  from  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
£  impels  to  do  it.  Give  ear,  O  Fellow  Scoundrels,  to  what 
'  the  Spirit  utters ;  treasure  it  in  your  hearts,  practise  it  in 
'  your  lives. 

'  Sitting  here,  penned-up  in  this  which,  with  a  slight  meta- 
'  phor,  I  call  the  Central  Cloaca  of  Nature,  where  a  tyranni- 
'  cal  De  Launay  can  forbid  the  bodily  eye  free  vision,  you 
'  with  the  mental  eye  see  but  the  better.  This  Central  Cloaca, 
'  is  it  not  rather  a  Heart,  into  which,  from  all  regions,  myste- 
'rious  conduits  introduce  and  forcibly  inject  whatsoever  is 


68 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


£  choicest  in  the  Scoundrelism  of  the  Earth  ;  there  to  be  ab« 
6  sorbed,  or  again  (by  the  other  auricle)  ejected  into  new  cir- 
6  dilation  ?  Let  the  eye  of  the  mind  run  along  this  immeas- 
£  urable  venous-arterial  system  ;  and  astound  itself  with  the 
£  magnificent  extent  of  Scoundreldom  ;  the  deep,  I  may  say, 
6  unfathomable,  significance  of  Scoundrelism. 

c  Yes,  brethren,  wide  as  the  Sun's  range  is  our  Empire, 

*  wider  than  old  Rome's  in  its  palmiest  era.  I  have  in  my 
£  time  been  far ;  in  frozen  Muscovy,  in  hot  Calabria,  east, 
'west,  wheresoever  the  sky  overarches  civilised  man :  and 
£  never  hitherto  saw  I  myself  an  alien  ;  out  of  Scoundreldom 
£  I  never  was.  Is  it  not  even  said,  from  of  old,  by  the  oppo- 
£  site  party  :  "  All  men  are  liars  ?  "  Do  they  not  (and  this  no- 
£  wise  "  in  haste  ")  whimperingly  talk  of  "  one  just  person  " 
£  (as  they  call  him),  and  of  the  remaining  thousand  save  one 
£  that  take  part  with  us  ?  So  decided  is  our  majority.' — 
(Applause.) 

'  Of  the  Scarlet  Woman, — yes,  Monseigneur,  without  offence, 
£  — of  the  Scarlet  Woman  that  sits  on  Seven  Hills,  and  her 
£  Black  Jesuit  Militia,  out  foraging  from  Pole  to  Pole,  I  speak 
'  not ;  for  the  story  is  too  trite  :  nay,  the  Militia  itself,  as  I  see, 
£  begins  to  be  disbanded,  and  invalided,  for  a  second  treachery ; 
£  treachery  to  herself !  Nor  yet  of  Governments  ;  for  a  like 
£  reason.  Ambassadors,  said  an  English  punster,  lie  abroad 
'  for  their  masters.  Their  masters,  we  answer,  lie  at  home  for 
£  themselves.  Not  of  all  this,  nor  of  Courtship  with  its  Lovers'- 
£  vows,  nor  Courtiership,  nor  Attorn eyism,  nor  Public  Oratory, 
£  and  Selling  by  Auction,  do  I  speak  :  I  simply  ask  the  gain- 
£  sayer,  Which  is  the  particular  trade,  profession,  mystery, 
£  calling,  or  pursuit  of  the  Sons  of  Adam  that  they  successfully 
£  manage  in  the  other  way  ?  He  cannot  answer  !  — No  :  Phi- 
£  losophy  itself,  both  practical  and  even  speculative,  has  at 
( length,  after  shamefullest  groping,  stumbled  on  the  plain 
£  conclusion  that  Sham  is  indispensable  to  Reality,  as  Lying 
4  to  Living  ;  that  without  Lying  the  whole  business  of  the 
'  world,  from  swaying  of  senates  to  selling  of  tapes,  must  ex- 

*  plode  into  anarchic  discords,  and  so  a  speedy  conclusion 
'  ensue. 


MJSSA  EST. 


69 


'But  the  grand  problem,  Fellow  Scoundrels,  as  you  well 
'  know,  is  the  marrying  of  Truth  and  Sham  ;  so  that  they  be- 
1  come  one  flesh,  man  and  wife,  and  generate  these  three  :  Pro- 
'  fit,  Pudding,  and  Eespectability  that  always  keeps  her  Gig. 
'  Wonderously,  indeed,  do  Truth  and  Delusion  play  into  one 
'  another  ;  Reality  rests  on  Dream.  Truth  is  but  the  skin  of 
'  the  bottomless  Untrue  :  and  ever,  from  time  to  time,  the 
6  Untrue  sheds  it ;  is  clear  again  ;  and  the  superannuated  True 
'  itself  becomes  a  Fable.  Thus  do  all  hostile  things  crumble 
'  back  into  our  Empire  ;  and  of  its  increase  there  is  no  end.  . 

'  O  brothers,  to  think  of  the  Speech  without  meaning  (which 
'  is  mostly  ours),  and  of  the  Speech  with  contrary  meaning 
'  (which  is  wholly  ours),  manufactured  by  the  organs  of  Man- 
'kind  in  one  solar  day  !  Or  call  it  a  day  of  Jubilee,  when 
'  public  Dinners  are  given,  and  Dinner-orations  are  delivered : 
'  or  say,  a  Neighbouring  Island  in  time  of  General  Election  ! 
'  O  yeL  immortal  gods!  The  mind  is  lost;  can  only  admire 
'  great  Nature's  plenteousness  with  a  kind  of  sacred  wonder. 

'  For  tell  me,  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man?  "  To  glorify 
6  God,"  said  the  old  Christian  Sect,  now  happily  extinct.  "  To 
'  eat  and  find  eatables  by  the  readiest  method/'  answers  sound 

*  Philosophy,  discarding  whims.    If  the  method  readier  than 

*  this  of  persuasive-attraction  is  yet  discovered, — point  it  out ! 
'  — Brethren,  I  said  the  old  Christian  Sect  was  happily  extinct : 
'  as,  indeed,  in  Rome  itself,  there  goes  the  wonderfullest  tra- 
ditionary Prophecy,1  of  that  Nazareth  Christ  coming  back, 
c  and  being  crucified  a  second  time  there  ;  which  truly  I  see 
£  not  in  the  least  how  he  could  fail  to  be.  Nevertheless,  that 
'  old  Christian  whim,  of  an  actual  living  and  ruling  God,  and 
'  some  sacred  covenant  binding  all  men  in  Him,  with  much 

*  other  mystic  stun0,  does,  under  new  or  old  shape,  linger  with 
6  a  few.  From  these  few  keep  yourselves  forever  far  !  They 
'  must  even  be  left  to  their  whim,  which  is  not  like  to  prove 
'  infectious. 

'  But  neither  are  we,  my  Fellow  Scoundrels,  without  our 
( Religion,  our  Worship  ;  which,  like  the  oldest,  and  all  true 
'  Worships,  is  one  of  Fear.    The  Christians  have  their  Cross, 

1  Goethe  mentions  it  (ItalianiscTie  Beise), 


70 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


'the  Moslem  their  Crescent :  but  have  not  we  too  our — Gal* 
'lows?  Yes,  w finitely  terrible  is  the  Gallows;  it  bestrides 
'  with  its  patibulary  fork  the  Pit  of  bottomless  Terror.  No 
'  Manicheans  are  we  ;  our  God  is  One.  Great,  exceeding 
€  great,  I  say,  is  the  Gallows  ;  of  old,  even  from  the  begin- 
s  ning,  in  this  world  ;  knowing  neither  variableness  nor  deca- 
3  dence  ;  forever,  forever,  over  the  wreck  of  ages,  and  all  civic 
G  and  ecclesiastic  convulsions,  meal-mobs,  revolutions,  the  Gal- 
'  lows  with  front  serenely  terrible  towers  aloft.  Fellow  Scoun- 

*  drels,  fear  the  Gallows,  and  have  no  other  fear  !  This  is  the 
'  Law  and  the  Prophets.  Fear  every  emanation  of  the  Gallows. 
'  And  what  is  every  buffet,  with  the  fist,  or  even  with  the  tongue, 
e  of  one  having  authority,  but  some  such  emanation  ?  And 
'  what  is  Force  of  Public  Opinion  but  the  infinitude  of  such 
'  emanations, — rushing  combined  on  you,  like  a  mighty  storm- 
6  wind  ?  Fear  the  Gallows,  I  say  !  O  when,  writh  its  long 
'  black  arm,  it  has  clutched  a  man,  what  avail  him  all  terrestrial 
'  things  ?  These  pass  away,  with  horrid  nameless  dinning  in 
'  his  ears ;  and  the  ill-starred  Scoundrel  pendulates  between 
'Heaven  and  Earth,  a  thing  rejected  of  both.' — (Profound 
sensation. ) 

'  Such,  so  wide  in  compass,  high,  gallows-high  in  dignity, 
'  is  the  Scoundrel  Empire ;  and  for  depth,  it  is  deeper  than 
'  the  Foundations  of  the  World.  For  what  was  Creation  itself 
'  wholly,  according  to  the  best  Philosophers,  but  a  Divulsion 
'  by  the  Time-Spirit  (or  Devil  so  called) ;  a  forceful  Interrup- 
'  tion,  or  breaking  asunder,  of  the  old  Quiescence  of  Eternity  ? 

*  It  was  Lucifer  that  fell,  and  made  this  lordly  World  arise. 
'Deep?  It  is  bottomless-deep;  the  very  Thought,  diving, 
'  bobs  up  from  it  baffled.  Is  not  this  that  they  call  Vice  of 
'Lying  the  Adam-Kadmon,  or  primeval  Kude-Element,  old  as 
'  Chaos  mother's-womb  of  Death  and  Hell  ;  whereon  their 
'  thin  film  of  Virtue,  Truth,  and  the  like,  poorly  wavers — for  a 
'  day  ?  All  Virtue,  what  is  it,  even  by  their  own  showing,  but 
'Vice  transformed, — that  is,  manufactured,  rendered  artificial  ? 
' "  Man's  Vices  are  the  roots  from  which  his  Virtues  grow  out 
'  and  see  the  light,"  says  one  :  "Yes,"  add  I,  "and  thanklessly 
'  steal  their  nourishment !  "  Were  it  not  for  the  nine  hundred 


MISSA  EST. 


71 


*  ninety  and  nine  unacknowledged,  perhaps  martyred  and 
4  calumniated  Scoundrels,  how  were  their  single  Just  Person 
4  (with  a  murrain  on  him!)  so  much  as  possible? — Oh,  it  is 

*  high,  high  :  these  things  are  too  great  for  me  ;  Intellect, 
'  Imagination,  flags  her  tired  wings  :  the  soul  lost,  baffled ' — 

— Here  Dame  de  Lamotte  tittered  audibly,  and  muttered 
Coq-d'fnde,  which,  being  interpreted  into  the  Scottish  tongue, 
signifies  Bubbly- Jock  I  The  Arch-Quack,  whose  eyes  were 
turned  inwards  as  in  rapt  contemplation,  started  at  the  titter 
and  mutter  :  his  eyes  flashed  outwards  with  dilated  pupil ;  his 
nostrils  opened  wide  ;  his  very  hair  seemed  to  stir  in  its  long 
twisted  pigtails  (his  fashion  of  curl)  ;  and  as  Indignation  is 
said  to  make  Poetry,  it  here  made  Prophecy,  or  what  sounded 
as  such.  With  terrible,  working  features,  and  gesticulation 
not  recommended  in  any  Book  of  Gesture,  the  Arch-Quack, 
in  voice  supernally  discordant,  like  Lions  worrying  Bulls  of 
Bashan,  began  : 

'  Sniff  not,  Dame  de  Lamotte  ;  tremble,  thou  foul  Circe- 
1  Megsera  ;  thy  day  of  desolation  is  at  hand  !  Behold  ye  the 
4  Sanhedrim  of  Judges,  with  their  fanners  of  written  Parch- 
4  ment,  loud-rustling,  as  they  winnow  all  her  chaff  and  down- 
1  plumage,  and  she  stands  there  naked  and  mean  ? — Villette, 

*  Oliva,  do  ye  blab  secrets  ?  Ye  have  no  pity  of  her  extreme 
4  need  ;  she  none  of  yours.    Is  thy  light-giggling,  untamable 

*  heart  at  last  heavy  ?  Hark  ye !  Shrieks  of  one  cast  out ; 
4  whom  they  brand  on  both  shoulders  with  iron  stamp ;  the 
4  red-hot  44 V,"  thou  Voleuse,  hath  it  entered  thy  soul?  Weep, 
4  Circe  de  Lamotte  ;  wail  there  in  truckle-bed,  and  hysterically 
4  gnash  thy  teeth  :  nay  do,  smother  thyself  in  thy  door-mat 
4  coverlid ;  thou  hast  found  thy  mates ;  thou  art  in  the  Sal- 
4  p^triere  ! — Weep,  daughter  of  the  high  and  puissant  Sans- 
4  inexpressibles !  Buzz  of  Parisian  Gossipry  is  about  thee ; 
4  but  not  to  help  thee  :  no,  to  eat  before  thy  time.  What  shall 
4  a  King's  Court  do  with  thee,  thou  unclean  thing,  while  thou 
4  yet  livest  ?  Escape !  Flee  to  utmost  countries,  hide  there, 
4  if  thou  canst,  thy  mark  of  Cain  ! — In  the  Babylon  of  Fogland  ! 
4  Ha  !  is  that  my  London  ?  See  I  Judas  Iscariot  Egalite  ?  Print, 
4  yea  print  abundantly  the  abominations  of  your  two  hearts  : 


72 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


1  breath  of  rattlesnakes  can  bedim  the  steel  mirror,  but  only 
'  for  a  time. — And  there  !  Ay,  there  at  last !  Tumblest  thou 
'  from  the  lofty  leads,  poverty-stricken,  O  thriftless  daughter 
'  of  the  high  and  puissant,  escaping  bailiffs  ?  Descendest  thou 
c  precipitate,  in  dead  night,  from  window  in  the  third  story  ; 
'  hurled  forth  by  Bacchanals,  to  whom  thy  shrill  tongue  had 
'grown  unbearable?  1  Yea,  through  the  smoke  of  that  new 
'  Babylon  thou  fallest  headlong  ;  one  long  scream  of  screams 
5  makes  night  hideous  :  thou  liest  there,  shattered  like  addle 
'  egg,  4  4  nigh  to  the  Temple  of  Flora  !  "  O  Lamotte,  hast  thy 
4  Hypocrisia  ended,  then  ?  Thy  many  characters  were  all 
4  acted.  Here  at  last  thou  actest  not,  but  art  what  thou  seem- 
f  est :  a  mangled  squelch  of  gore,  confusion  and  abomination  ; 
4  which  men  huddle  underground,  with  no  burial-stone.  Thou 
4  gallows-carrion  ! ' — 

—  Here  the  prophet  turned  up  his  nose  (the  broadest  of 
the  eighteenth  century),  and  opened  wide  his  nostrils  with 
such  a  greatness  of  disgust,  that  all  the  audience,  even  La- 
motte herself,  sympathetically  imitated  him. — 4  0  Dame  de 
4  Lamotte  !  Dame  de  Lamotte  !  Now,  when  the  circle  of  thy 
4  existence  lies  complete  ;  and  my  eye  glances  over  these  two 
4  score  and  three  years  that  were  lent  thee,  to  do  evil  as  thou 
'  couldst ;  and  I  behold  thee  a  bright-eyed  little  Tatterdema- 
*  lion,  begging  and  gathering  sticks  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  ; 
4  and  also  at  length  a  squelched  Putrefaction,  here  on  London 
4  pavements ;  with  the  head-dressings  and  hungerings,  the 
4  gaddings  and  hysterical  gigglings  that  came  between, — what 
'  shall  I  say  was  the  meaning  of  thee  at  all  ? — 

4  Villette-de-Ketaux  !  Have  the  catchpoles  trepanned  thee, 
4  by  sham  of  battle,  in  thy  Tavern,  from  the  sacred  Bepubli- 
c  can  soil  ? 2    It  is  thou  that  wert  the  hired  Forger  of  Hand- 

1  The  English  Translator  of  Lamotte's  Life  says,  she  fell  from  the  leads 
of  her  house,  nigh  the  Temple  of  Flora,  endeavouring  to  escape  seizure 
for  debt ;  and  was  taken  up  so  much  hurt  that  she  died  in  consequence. 
Another  report  runs  that  she  was  flung  out  of  window,  as  in  the  Caglios- 
trie  text.  One  way  or  other  she  did  die,  on  the  23d  of  August  1791  (Bio- 
graphie  Univerdelle,  xxx.  287).  Where  the  '  Temple  of  Flora 1  was,  or  isT 
one  knows  not. 

2  See  Georgely  and  Villette's  Memoire. 


MISSA  EST. 


78 


*  writings  ?  Thou  wilt  confess  it  ?  Depart,  unwhipt  yet  ac- 
cursed.— Ha!  The  dread  Symbol  of  our  Faith?  Swings 
'  aloft,  on  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  a  Pendulous  Mass,  which  I 
i  think  I  discern  to  be  the  body  of  Villette  !  There  let  him 
£  end  ;  the  sweet  morsel  of  our  Juggernaut. 

6  Nay,  weep  not  thou,  disconsolate  Oliva ;  blear  not  thy 
'  bright  blue  eyes,  daughter  of  the  shady  Garden !  Thee 
(  shall  the  Sanhedrim  not  harm  :  this  Cloaca  of  Nature  emits 
6  thee  ;  as  notablest  of  unfortunate-females,  thou  shalt  have 
'choice  of  husbands  not  without  capital;  and  accept  one.1 
c  Know  this  ;  for  the  vision  of  it  is  true. 

'But  the  Anointed  Majesty  whom  ye  profaned?  Blow, 

■  spirit  of  Egyptian  Masonry,  blow  aside  the  thick  curtains 
'  of  Space !    Lo  you,  her  eyes  are  red  with  their  first  tears 

■  of  pure  bitterness  ;  not  with  their  last.  Tirewoman  Cam- 
'pan  is  choosing,  from  the  Print-shops  of  the  Quais,  the 
'  reputed-best  among  the  hundred  likenesses  of  Circe  de  La- 
'  motte  : 2  a  Queen  shall  consider  if  the  basest  of  women  ever, 
'  by  any  accident,  darkened  daylight  or  candle-light  for  the 
'  highest.  The  Portrait  answers  :  Never  ! ' — (Sensation  in  the 
audience. ) 

'  — Ha  !  What  is  this  ?  Angels,  Uriel,  Anachiel,  and  ye 
'  other  five  ;  Pentagon  of  Rejuvenescence  ;  Power  that  de- 

1  In  the  Affaire  du  Collier  is  this  Ms.  Note  :  '  Gay  d'Oliva,  a  common. 
'  girl  of  the  Palais-Royal,  who  was  chosen  to  play  a  part  in  this  Busi- 
i  ness,  got  married,  some  years  afterwards,  to  one  Beausire,  an  Ex-Noble 

*  formerly  attached  to  the  d'Artois  Household.    In  1790,  he  was  Cap- 

*  tain  of  the  National  Guard  Company  of  the  Temple.  He  then  retired 
4  to  Choisy,  and  managed  to  be  named  Procure ur  of  that  Commune  :  he 
£  finally  employed  himself  in  drawing-up  Lists  of  Proscription  in  the 
6  Luxembourg  Prison,  when  he  played  the  part  of  informer  (moutori). 
6  See  Tableau  des  Prisons  de  Paris  sous  Robespierre.''  These  details  are 
correct.  In  the  Memoires  sur  les  Prisons  (new  title  of  the  Book  just  re- 
ferred to),  ii.  171,  we  find  this  :  1  The  second  Denouncer  was  Beausire, 

*  an  Ex-Noble,  known  under  the  old  government  for  his  intrigues.  To 
'give  an  idea  of  him,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  lie  married  the  d'Oliva,' 
&c,  as  in  the  Ms.  Note  already  given.    Finally  is  added  :  '  He  was  the 

*  main  spy  of  Boyenval,  who,  however,  said  that  he  made  use  of  him  ; 
1  but  that  Fouquier-Tinville  did  not  like  him,  and  would  have  him 
1  guillotined  in  good  time.'  2  See  Campan. 


74 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


'  stroyedst  Original  Sin ;  Earth,  Heaven,  and  thou  Outer 
£  Limbo  which  men  name  Hell !  Does  the  Empire  of  Impost* 
'  ure  waver  ?  Burst  there,  in  starry  sheen,  updarting,  Light- 
e  rays  from  out  its  dark  foundations ;  as  it  rocks  and  heaves, 
1  not  in  the  travail-throes,  but  in  death-throes  ?    Yea,  Light- 

*  rays,  piercing,  clear,  that  salute  the  Heavens, — lo,  they  kindle 
6  it  ;  their  starry  clearness  becomes  as  red  Hell-fire  !  Im- 
'  posture  is  in  flames,  Imposture  is  burnt  up  :  one  Red-sea  of 
'  Fire,  wild-billowing  enwraps  the  World  ;  with  its  fire-tongue 
6  licks  at  the  very  stars.     Thrones  are  hurled  into  it,  and 

*  Dubois  Mitres,  and  Prebendal  Stalls  that  drop  fatness,  and — 
4  ha  !  what  see  I? — all  the  Gigs  of  Creation  :  all,  all !  "Woe  is 
'  me !  Never  since  Pharaoh's  Chariots,  in  the  Red-sea  of 
6  water,  was  there  wreck  of  Wheel-vehicles  like  this  in  the  sea 
'  of  Fire.  Desolate,  as  ashes,  as  gases,  shall  they  wander  in 
'  the  wind. 

'  Higher,  higher  yet  flames  the  Fire-Sea  ;  crackling  with 
'  new  dislocated  timber  ;  hissing  with  leather  and  prunella. 
6  The  mental  Images  are  molten  ;  the  marble  Images  become 
'  mortar-lime  ;  the  stone  Mountains  sulkily  explode.  Respec- 

*  t ability,  with  all  her  collected  Gigs  inflamed  for  funeral 
'  pyre,  wailing,  leaves  the  Earth  :  not  to  return  save  under 
'  new  Avatar.   Imposture,  how  it  burns,  through  generations  : 

*  how  it  is  burnt  up — for  a  time.  The  World  is  black  ashes  ; 
'  which,  ah,  when  will  they  grow  green  ?  The  Images  all  run 
'  into  amorphous  Corinthian  brass  ;  all  Dwellings  of  men  de- 
'  stroyed  ;  the  very  mountains  peeled  and  riven,  the  valleys 
'  black  and  dead  :  it  is  an  empty  World  !    Woe  to  them  that 

i  shall  be  born  then  !  A  King,  a  Queen  (ah  me  !)  were  hurled 

'  in  ;  did  rustle  once  ;  flew  aloft,  crackling,  like  paper-scroll. 

*  Oliva's  Husband  was  hurled  in  ;  Iscariot  Egalite  ;  thou  grim 
'  De  Launay,  with  thy  grim  Bastille  ;  whole  kindreds  and 

*  peoples  ;  five  millions  of  mutually  destroying  Men.  For  it 
'  is  the  End  of  the  Dominion  of  Imposture  (which  is  Darkness 
'  and  opaque  Firedamp)  ;  and  the  burning-up,  with  unquench- 
'  able  fire,  of  all  the  Gigs  that  are  in  the  Earth  ! ' — Here  the 
Prophet  paused,  fetching  a  deep  sigh  ;  and  the  Cardinal  ut- 
tered a  kind  of  faint,  tremulous  Hem  ! 


MI88A  EST. 


75 


**  4  Mourn  not,  O  Monseigneur,  spite  of  thy  nephritic  cholic 
4  and  many  infirmities.  For  thee  mercifully  it  was  not  unto 
4  death.1  O  Monseigneur  (for  thou  hadst  a  touch  of  good- 
4  ness),  who  would  not  weep  over  thee/  if  he  also  laughed  ? 
4  Behold !    The  not  too  judicious  Historian,  that  long  years 

*  hence,  amid  remotest  wildernesses,  writes  thy  Life,  and 

*  names  thee  Mud-volcano  ;  even  he  shall  reflect  that  it  was 
4  thy  Life  this  same  ;  thy  only  chance  through  whole  Eternity ; 

*  which  thou  (poor  gambler)  hast  -expended  so  :  and,  even 
4  over  his  hard  heart,  a  breath  of  dewy  pity  for  thee  shall 
4  blow. — O  Monseigneur,  thou  wert  not  all  ignoble  :  thy  Mud- 
4  volcano  was  but  strength  dislocated,  fire  misapplied.  Thou 

*  wentest  ravening  through  the  world  *  no  Life-elixir  or  Stone 
4  of  the  Wise  could  we  two  (for  want  of  funds)  discover :  a 

*  foulest  Circe  undertook  to  fatten  thee ;  and  thou  hadst  to 

*  fill  thy  belly  with  the  east  wind.    And  burst  ?    By  the  Ma- 

*  sonry  of  Enoch,  No  !  Behold,  has  not  thy  Jesuit  Familiar 
1  his  Scouts  dim-flying  over  the  deep  of  human  things  ? 
4  Cleared  art  thou  of  crime,  save  that  of  fixed-idea  ;  weepest, 
4  a  repentant  exile,  in  the  Mountains  of  Auvergne.  Neither 
6  shall  the  Red  Fire-sea  itself  consume  thee ;  only  consume 

*  thy  Gig,  and,  instead  of  Gig  (O  rich  exchange  !),  restore  thy 
4  Self.  Safe  beyond  the  Rhine-stream,  thou  livest  peaceful 
4  days ;  savest  many  from  the  fire,  and  anointest  their  smart- 

*  ing  burns.  Sleep  finally,  in  thy  mother's  bosom,  in  a  good 
4  old  age  ! ' — The  Cardinal  gave  a  sort  of  guttural  murmur,  or 
gurgle,  which  ended  in  a  long  sigh. 

6  O  Horrors,  as  ye  shall  be  called/  again  burst  forth  the 
Quack,  4  why  have  ye  missed  the  Sieur  de  Lamotte  ;  why 
4  not  of  him,  too,  made  gallows-carrion  ?    Will  spear,  or  sword- 

*  stick,  thrust  at  him  (or  supposed  to  be  thrust),  through 
4  window  of  hackney-coach,  in  Piccadilly  of  the  Babylon  of 
4  Fog,  where  he  jolts  disconsolate,  not  let  out  the  imprisoned 
4  animal  existence  ?    Is  he  poisoned,  too  ? 2    Poison  will  not 

1  Rohan  was  elected  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  ;  and  even  got  a 
compliment  or  two  in  it,  as  Court- victim,  from  here  and  there  a  man  of 
weak  judgment.    He  was  one  of  the  first  who,  recalcitrating  against 

*  Civil  Constitution  of  the  Clergy '  &c. ,  took  himself  across  the  Rhine. 
'2  See  Lamotte's  Narrative  (Memoires  Jastificatifs). 


76 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


'  kill  the  Sieur  Lamotte  ;  nor  steel,  nor  massacres. 1  Let  him 
£  drag  his  utterly  superfluous  life  to  a  second  and  a  third  gen- 
c  eration  ;  and  even  admit  the  not  too  judicious  Historian  to 
'  see  his  face  before  he  die. 

£  But,  ha  ! J  cried  he,  and  stood  wide-staring,  horror-struck, 
as  if  some  Cribb's  fist  had  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him  :  1  O 
'  horror  of  horrors  !  Is  it  not  Myself  I  see  ?  Roman  Inquisi- 
£  tion !  Long  months  of  cruel  baiting  !  Life  of  Giuseppe 
6  Balsamo  !  Cagliostro's  Body  still  lying  in  St.  Leo  Castle,  his 
'  Self  fled — whither  f  Bystanders  wag  their  heads,  and  say  : 
c  "  The  Brow  of  Brass,  behold  how  it  has  got  all  unlackered  ; 
e  these  Pinchbeck  lips  can  lie  no  more  !  "  Eheu  !  Ohoo  ! ' — 
And  he  burst  into  unstanchable  blubbering  of  tears ;  and 
sobbing  out  the  moanfullest  broken  howl,  sank  down  in  swoon  ; 
to  be  put  to  bed  by  De  Launay  and  others. 

1  Lamotte,  after  his  wife's  death,  had  returned  to  Paris  ;  and  been  ar- 
rested,— not  for  building  churches.  The  Sentence  of  the  old  Parlement 
against  him,  in  regard  to  the  Necklace  Business,  he  gets  annulled  by  the 
new  Courts  ;  but  is,  nevertheless,  'retained  in  confinement,'  {Moniieur 
Newspaper,  7th  August  1792).  He  was  still  in  Prison  at  the  time  the 
September  Massacre  broke  out.  From  Maton  de  la  Varenne  we  cite  the 
following  grim  passage  :  Maton  is  in  La  Force  Prison. 

4  At  one  in  the  morning '  (of  Monday,  September  3),  writes  Maton, 
4  the  grate  that  led  to  our  quarter  was  again  opened.  Four  men  in  uni- 
4  form,  holding  each  a  naked  sabre  and  blazing  torch,  mounted  to  our 
4  corridor  ;  a  turnkey  showing  the  way  ;  and  entered  a  room  close  on 
*  ours  to  investigate  a  box,  which  they  broke  open.  This  done,  they 
4  halted  in  the  gallery  ;  and  began  interrogating  one  Cuissa,  to  know 
4  where*  Lamotte  was  ;  who,  they  said,  under  pretext  of  finding  a  treas- 
4  ure,  which  they  should  share  in,  had  swindled  one  of  them  out  of  300 
4  livres,  having  asked  him  to  dinner  for  that  purpose.  The  wretched 
4  Cuissa,  whom  they  had  in  their  power,  and  who  lost  his  life  that  night, 
4  answered,  all  trembling,  that  he  remembered  the  fact  well,  but  could 
4  not  say  what  had  become  of  the  prisoner.  Resolute  to  find  this  La- 
'  motte  and  confront  him  with  Cuissa,  they  ascended  into  other  rooms, 
4  and  made  farther  rummaging  there  ;  but  apparently  without  effect, 
4  for  I  heard  them  say  to  one  another  :  44  Come,  search  among  the  corpses 
4  then  ;  for,  Nam  de  Dieu!  we  must  know  what  is  become  of  him." ' 
(Ma  Resurrection,  par  Maton  de  la  Varenne  ;  reprinted  in  the  Histoire 
Parlementaire,  xviii.  142.)— Lamotte  lay  in  the  BiccHre  Prison  ;  but  had 
got  out,  precisely  in  the  nick  of  time— and  dived  beyond  soundings. 


MISSA  EST. 


77 


Thus  spoke  (or  thus  might  have  spoken),  and  prophesied, 
the  Arch-Quack  Cagliostro  :  and  truly  much  better  than  he 
ever  else  did  :  for  not  a  jot  or  tittle  of  it  (save  only  that  of  our 
promised  Interview  with  Nestor  de  Lamotte,  which  looks  1111- 
likelier  than  <ever,  for  we  have  not  heard  of  him,  dead  or  liv- 
ing, since  1826) — but  has  turned  out  to  be  literally  true.  As 
indeed,  in  all  this  History,  one  jot  or  tittle  of  untruth,  that  we 
could  render  true,  is  perhaps  not  discoverable ;  much  as  the 
distrustful  reader  may  have  disbelieved. 

Here,  then,  our  little  labour  ends.  The  Necklace  was,  and 
is  no  more  :  the  stones  of  it  again  'circulate  in  Commerce/ 
some  of  them  perhaps  in  Bundle's  at  this  hour  ;  and  may  give 
rise  to  what  other  Histories  we  know  not.  The  Conquerors 
of  it,  every  one  that  trafficked  in  it,  have  they  not  all  had  their 
due,  which  was  Death  ? 

This  little  Business,  like  a  little  cloud,  bodied  itself  forth  in 
skies  clear  to  the  unobservant :  but  with  such  hues  of  deep- 
tinted  villany,  dissoluteness  and  general  delirium  as,  to  the 
observant,  betokened  it  electric  ;  and  wise  men,  a  Goethe  for 
example,  boded  Earthquakes.    Has  not  the  Earthquake  come  ? 


MIRABEATJ. 


STTMMAKY  OF  COINTECTS. 


MIRABEAU. 

The  Life  of  an  Original  Man,  the  highest  fact  our  world  witnesses : 
Such  a  Man  a  problem,  not  only  to  others,  but  to  himself.  Woe  to 
him  who  has  no  court  of  appeal  against  the  world's  judgment !  (p.  80). — 
In  such  matter  the  world  cannot  be  right,  till  after  it  has  learnt 
the  lesson  the  New  Man  brings.  The  world's  wealth  and  creative 
•strength  consists  solely  in  its  Original  Men,  and  what  they  do  for  it. 
Before  we  can  have  Morality  and  critical  canons,  we  must  have  Heroes 
and  their  heroic  performances.  (81). — He  were  a  sanguine  seeker  who 
should  look  to  the  French  Revolution  for  creators  or  exemplars  of 
morality.  A  greater  work  never  done  in  the  world's  history  by  men 
so  small.  Effervescence  and  heroic  desperation :  Mahomet  Robes- 
pierre's scraggiest  of  prophetic  discourses :  Exaggerated  commonplace, 
and  triviality  run  rabid.  A  vain,  cramped,  atrabiliar  Formula  of  a 
man,  for  nearly  two  years  Autocrat  of  France.  (84). — And  yet  the  French 
Revolution  did  disclose  three  original  men.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  a 
fair  way  of  being  rightly  appreciated :  His  gospel,  4  The  tools  to  him 
that  can  handle  them,'  our  ultimate  Political  Evangel.  Trimmers, 
moderates,  plausible  persons;  hateful  to  God,  and  to  the  Enemies  of 
God.  If  Bonaparte  were  the  'armed  Soldier  of  Democracy, 1  then  was 
Danton  the  Enfant  Perdu,  and  imenlisted  Titan  of  Democracy :  An 
Earthborn,  yet  honestly  born  of  Earth :  Wild,  all-daring  4  Mirabeau  of 
the  Sansculottes : '  What  to  him  were  whole  shoals  of  immaculate 
Pharisees  and  Respectabilities  ?  *  Let  my  name  be  blighted,  then  ;  so 
the  Cause  be  glorious,  and  have  victory ! '  Once  cleared,  why  should 
not  this  name  too  have  significance  for  men  ?  (87)  — Mirabeau,  by  far 
the  best-gifted  of  this  questionable  trio :  Of  him  too  it  is  interesting  to 
notice  the  progressive  dawning,  out  of  darkness  into  light.  Difference 
between  an  Original  Man  and  a  parliamentary  mill.  Insufficiency  of 
Mirabeau's  Biographers.  Dumont's  Souvenirs  sur  Mirabeau,  not  without 
faithfulness  and  picturesque  clearness  :  the  great  Mirabeau  being  a  thing 
set  in  motion  mainly  by  him  !  Lucas  Montigny's  biographical  work,  a 
monstrous  heap  of  shot-rubbish,  containing  and  hiding  much  valuable 
matter.  By  one  means  and  another  some  sketch  of  Mirabeau  himself 
may  be  brought  to  light.  (93). — His  father  a  crabbed,  sulphurous,  choleric 
old — Friend  of  Men.  The  Mirabeaus  cast- out  of  Florence  at  the  time 
Dante  was  a  boy:  A  notable  kindred  ;  as  the  kindred  and  fathers  of 
most  notable  men  are.  A  family  totally  exempt  from  blockheads,  but  a 
little  liable  to  blackguards.  One  of  them  vowed  to  chain  two  mountains 
together ;  and  did  it.  They  get  firm  footing  in  Marseilles  as  trading 
nobles:  Talent  for  choosing  wives  Uncouth  courtiership  at  Versailles 
(Eil-de-Boeuf.    Jean  Antoine*  afterwards  named  Silverstock :  Haugh- 


iv  SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 

tier,  juster,  more  choleric  man  need  not  be  sought-for.  Battle  of 
Casano  :  The  Mirabeau  family  narrowly  escapes  extinction.  World-wide 
influence  of  the  veriest  trifles:  Inscrutability  of  genetic  history.  (101). — 
In  the  whole  kindred,  no  stranger  figure  than  the  'Friend' of  Men,' 
Mirabeau's  father  :  Strong,  tough  as  an  oak-root,  and  as  gnarled  and 
unwedgeable.  Really  a  most  notable,  questionable,  hateable,  lovable 
old  Marqin's.  A  Pedant,  but  under  most  interesting  new  circumstances. 
Mobility  in  France  based  no  longer  on  heroic  nobleness  of  conduct  and 
effort  ;  but  on  sycophancy,  formality,  adroitness  :  How  shall  the  proudest 
of  the  Mirabeaus  fall  prostrate  before  a  Pompadour  ?  Literary  powers, 
characteristics  and  shortcomings  :  Not  through  the  press  is  there  any 
progress  towards  premiership.  The  world  a  mad  imbroglio,  which  no 
Friend  of  Men  can  set  right.  Domestic  rebellions  and  tribulations: 
Lawsuits  between  man  and  wife:  Fifty -four  Lettres  de  Cacliet,  for  the 
use  of  a  single  Marquis.  Blessed  old  Marquis,  or  else  accursed  ;  there 
is  stuff  in  thee  ;  and  stuff  is  stuff,  were  it  never  so  crabbed  !  His 
Brother,  Bailli  de  Mirabeau,  and  their  frank  brotherly  love.  (108). — 
Gabriel  Honor e  Mirabeau,  born  9th  March  1749  :  A  very  Hercules  ;  as  if 
in  this  man-child  Destiny  had  swept  together  all  the  wildnesses  and 
strengths  of  his  lineage.  Mirabeau,  Goethe,  Burns  :  Could  the  well- 
born of  the  world  be  always  rightly  bred,  and  rightly  welcomed,  what  a 
world  it  might  be !  Mirabeau's  rough,  vehement,  genial  childhood  : 
His  father's  pedantic  interference  :  Xo  lion's- whelp  or  young  Mirabeau 
will  go  like  clockwork.  What  a  task  the  poor  paternal  Marquis  had  : 
His  troubled  notions  about  his  own  offspring.  Young  Mirabeau  sent  to 
boarding-school  in  disgrace :  Gains  the  goodwill  of  all  who  come  near 
him.  Sent  to  the  Army :  The  people  of  Saintes  grew  to  like  him  amaz- 
ingly :  Quarrels  with  his  Colonel  :  Archer's  daughter,  and  the  tongue  of 
the  Old  Serpent :  Lettre  de  Cachet  and  the  Isle  of  Rhe.  Happily  there  is 
fighting  in  Corsica,  and  young  Mirabeau  gets  leave  to  join  it.  His  good 
uncle  pronounces  him  the  best  fellow  on  earth  if  well  dealt  with.  Re- 
stored to  his  father's  favour.  Visits  Paris,  and  gains  golden  opinions.  His 
father's  notable  criticisms  :  In  the  name  of  all  the  gods  what  prodigy  is 
this  I  have  hatched  ?  A  Swallower  of  all  Formulas  :  And  has  not  France 
formulas  enough  to  swallow,  and  make  away  with  ?  (119). — Neither  in 
the  rural  Man-of-business  department  is  he  found  wanting.  Demon  of 
the  Impossible.  Letter  to  his  Uncle.  Unfortunate  Marriage  :  A  young 
Alexander,  with  a  very  poor  outlook.  Tries  to  make  a  fitting  home  for 
his  young  Wife.  Jew-debts,  and  another  Lettre  de  Cachet.  In  Manosque, 
too,  a  man  can  live  and  read,  and  write  an  Essay  on  Despotism.  Fresh 
entanglements :  His  Wife's  theoretic  flirtations  :  His  generous  efforts  to 
make  the  twisted  straight.  A  sudden  quarrel  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
royal  Letter  :  Grim  confinement  in  the  Castle  of  If,  at  the  grim  old 
Marquis's  order.  O  thou  poor  Mirabeau,  thou  art  getting  really  into 
war  wish  Formulas, — terriblest  of  all  wars!  A  stolen  visit  from  his 
Brother,  the  Younger  Mirabeau.  The  old  Marquis's  ear  deaf  as  that  of 
Destiny.  Poor  Mirabeau :  and  poor  shallow-hearted  Wife  :  The  ill- 
assorted  pair  will  never  meet  again.  (129). — Mirabeau  allowed  to  walk 
in  Pontarlier  on  parole.  Old  President  Monnier,  aged  seventy-five ;  and 
his  lovely,  sad-heroic  young  wife.  Mirabeau  feels  their  danger,  and 
implores  his  own  wife  to  come  to  him  :  She  declines  the  invitation. 
Temptation,  and  jealous  entanglements  :  An  explosion  :  Sophie  Monnier, 
sharply  dealt  with,  avows  and  justifies  her  love  for  Mirabeau.  Lettres 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


v 


de  Cachet,  and  Convent-walls  :  They  both  fly.  The  tough  old  Marquis 
gives  chase  :  They  reach  Holland,  broken  in  character,  though  not  yet 
in  heart.  Who  might  be  the  first  and  greatest  sinner  in  this  bad  busi- 
ness ?  Dear  brethren  of  Mankind,  'endeavour  to  clear  your  minds  of 
Cant !  '  Mirabeau  cited  before  the  Parlement  of  Besancon,  and  beheaded 
in  Paper  Effigy.  Garret-life  in  Holland :  The  wild  man  and  beautiful 
sad-heroic  woman  lived  their  romance  of  reality  as  well  as  might  be  ex- 
pected. After  eight  months  of  hard  toils  and  trembling  joys  begirt  with 
terror,  they  are  discovered  and  brought  back.  Mirabeau  fast-locked  in 
the  Castle  of  Vincennes  for  forty-two  months  :  His  wretched  Sophie  in 
some  milder  Convent  confinement :  Their  Correspondence.  A  last  un- 
toward meeting  :  Poor  Sophie's  melancholy  end.  Mirabeau  again  at 
liberty,  storms  before  the  Besancon  Parlement ;  and  the  Paper  Effigy 
has  its  head  stuck  on  again.  The  tough  old  Marquis  summons  his 
children  about  him,  and  frankly  declares  himself  invalided  :  They  must 
now  strive  to  govern  themselves!  Mirabeau' s  Demosthenic  fire  and 
pathos:  But  he  cannot  get  his  wife's  property.  (140).— Mirabeau' s  life 
for  the  next  five  years  creeps  troublous,  obscure  :  The  world's  esteem, 
its  codes  and  formulas,  gone  quite  against  him.  In  spite  of  the  world, 
a  living  strong  man,  who  will  not  tumble  prostrate.  His  wandering, 
questionable  mode  of  life  :  Incontinence,,  enormous,  entirely  inde- 
fensible :  In  audacity,  in  recklessness,  not  likely  to  be  wanting. 
Mirabeau  as  a  writer  and  speaker  :  Instead  of  tropes  and  declamatory 
fervid  feeling,  a  totally  unornamented  force  and  massiveness, — convic- 
tion striving  to  convince  :  The  primary  character,  sincerity  and  insight. 
Nicknames  that  are  worth  whole  treatises.  (143). — Convocation  of  the 
States-General.  Need  we  ask  whether  Mirabeau  bestirs  himself  now  ? 
One  strong  dead-lift  pull,  thou  Titan,  and  perhaps  thou  earnest  it !  How 
Mirabeau  wrestled  and  strove,  under  such  auspices  :  His  flinging  up  of 
the  handful  of  dust.  Voluntary  guard  of  a  hundred  men:  Explosions 
of  rejoicing  musketry  :  Chosen  deputy  for  two  places.  For  this  Mirabeau, 
too,  the  career  at  last  opens  :  Forty  long  stern  years  ;  and  now,  Hyperion- 
like,  he  has  scaled  the  mountain- tops  :  What  a  scene,  and  new  kingdom, 
lies  before  him  !  O  Son  of  Adam !  Son  of  Lucifer  !  the  thing  thou 
wan  test  is  equilibrium, — rest  or  peace.  (147). — Madame  de  StaeTs  account 
of  Mirabeau  in  the  procession  of  Deputies.  Seen  visibly  to  have  saved, 
as  with  his  own  force,  the  existence  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  :  Alone 
of  all  these  Twelve-hundred,  there  is  in  him  the  faculty  of  a  King.  The 
brave  old  Marquis  lived  to  see  his  son's  victory ;  and  rejoiced  in  it. 
Death,  amid  the  mourning  of  a  people.  Imperfection  of  human  char- 
acters ;  and  difficulty  of  seeing  them  as  they  are  and  were.  Mirabeau 
also  was  made  by  the  Upper  Powers ;  in  their  wisdom,  not  in  our  wis- 
dom, was  he  so  made,  and  so  marred.  (151). 


MIRABEAU.1 


[1837.] 

A  proverb  says,  '  The  house  that  is  a-building  looks  not  as 
the  house  that  is  built.'  Environed  with  rubbish  and  mortar- 
heaps,  with  scaffold-poles,  hodmen,  dust-clouds,  some  rudi- 
ments only  of  the  thing  that  is  to  be,  can,  to  the  most  ob- 
servant, disclose  themselves  through  the  mean  tumult  of  the 
thing  that  hitherto  is.  How  true  is  this  same  with  regard  to 
all  works  and  facts  whatsoever  in  our  world ;  emphatically 
true  in  regard  to  the  highest  fact  and  work  which  our  vorld 
witnesses, — the  Life  of  what  we  call  an  Original  Man.  Such 
a  man  is  one  not  made  altogether  by  the  common  pattern  ; 
one  whose  phases  and  goings-forth  cannot  be  prophesied  of, 
even  approximately  ;  though,  indeed,  by  their  very  newness 
and  strangeness  they  most  of  all  provoke  prophecy.  A  man 
of  this  kind,  while  he  lives  on  earth,  is  'unfolding  himself  out 
of  nothing  into  something/  surely  under  very  complex  condi- 
tions :  he  is  drawing  continually  towards  him,  in  continual 
succession  and  variation,  the  materials  of  his  structure,  nay 
his  very  plan  of  it,  from  the  whole  realm  of  Accident,  you  may 
say,  and  from  the  whole  realm  of  Free-will :  he  is  building  his 
life  together  in  this  manner ;  a  guess  and  a  problem  as  yet, 
not  to  others  only  but  to  himself.  Hence  such  criticism  by 
the  bystanders ;  loud  no-knowledge,  loud  mis-knowledge  !  It 
is  like  the  opening  of  the  Fisherman's  Casket  in  the  Arabian 
Tale,  this  beginning  and  growing-up  of  a  life  :  vague  smoke 

1  London  and  Westminster  Review,  No.  S.—Memoires  biographi- 
ques  litteraires  et  politiqiies  de  Mirabeau  ;  ecritspar  lui-meme,  par  son  Pere, 
son  Chicle  et  son  Fits  Adoptif  (Memoirs,  biographical,  literary  and  politi- 
cal, oi'  Mirabeau;  written  by  himself,  by  his  Father,  his  Uncle  and  his 
Adopted  Son).    8  vols.  8vo.    Paris,  1834-36. 


80 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


waving  hither  and  thither  ;  some  features  of  a  Genie  looming 
through ;  of  the  ultimate  shape  of  which  no  fisherman  or  man 
can  judge.  And  yet,  as  we  say,  men  do  judge,  and  pass  pro- 
visional sentence,  being  forced  to  it ;  you  can  predict  with 
what  accuracy!  '  Look  at  the  audience  in  a  theatre,'  says 
one  :  '  the  life  of  a  man  is  there  compressed  within  five-hours 
'  duration  ;  is  transacted  on  an  open  stage,  with  lighted  lamps, 
'and  what  the  fittest  words  and  art  of  genius  can  do  to  make 
'  the  spirit  of  it  clear  ;  yet  listen,  when  the  curtain  falls,  what 
'a  discerning  public  will  say  of  that!'  And  now,  if  the  drama 
extended  over  threescore  and  ten  years;  and  were  enacted, 
not  with  a  view  to  clearness,  but  rather  indeed  with  a  view  to 
concealment,  often  in  the  deepest  attainable  involution  of  ob- 
scurity ;  and  your  discerning  public,  occupied  otherwise,  cast 
its  eye  on  the  business  now  here  for  a  moment,  and  then  there 
for  a  moment  ?  Woe  to  him,  answer  we,  who  has  no  court  of 
appeal  against  the  world's  judgment !  He  is  a  doomed  man  : 
doomed  by  conviction  to  hard  penalties ;  nay  purchasing  ac- 
quittal (too  probably)  by  a  still  harder  penalty,  that  of  being 
a  triviality,  superficiality,  self-advertiser,  and  partial  or  total 
quack,  which  is  the  hardest  penalty  of  all. 

But  suppose  farther,  that  the  man,  as  we  said,  was  an  orig- 
inal man  ;  that  his  life-drama  would  not  and  could  not  be 
measured  by  the  three  unities  alone,  but  partly  by  a  rule  of 
its  own  too  :  still  farther,  that  the  transactions  he  had  mingled 
in  were  great  and  world-dividing  ;  that  of  all  his  judges  there 
were  not  one  who  had  not  something  to  love  him  for  unduly, 
to  hate  him  for  unduly  !  Alas,  is  it  not  precisely  in  this  case, 
where  the  whole  world  is  promptest  to  judge,  that  the  whole 
world  is  likeliest  to  be  wrong ;  natural  opacity  being  so  doubly 
and  trebly  darkened  by  accidental  difficulty  and  perversion  ? 
The  crabbed  moralist  had  some  show  of  reason  who  said  :  To 
judge  of  an  original  contemporary  man,  you  must,  in  general, 
reverse  the  world's  judgment  about  him  ;  the  world  is  not 
only  wrong  on  that  matter,  but  cannot  on  any  such  matter  be 
right. 

One  comfort  is,  that  the  world  is  ever  working  itself  righter 
and  righter  on  such  matters  ;  that  a  continual  revisal  and 


MIR  A  BE  A  27". 


81 


rectification  of  the  world's  first  judgment  on  them  is  inevita- 
bly going  on.  For,  after  all,  the  world  loves  its  original  men, 
and  can  in  no  wise  forget  them  ;  not  till  after  a  long  while  ; 
sometimes  not  till  after  thousands  of  years.  Forgetting  them, 
what,  indeed,  should  it  remember  ?  The  world's  wealth  is  its 
original  men  ;  by  these  and  their  works  it  is  a  world  and  not 
a  waste  :  the  memory  and  record  of  what  men  it  bore — this 
is  the  sum  of  its  strength,  its  sacred  'property  forever,' 
whereby  it  upholds  itself,  and  steers  forward,  better  or  worse, 
through  the  yet  undiscovered  deep  of  Time.  All  knowledge, 
all  art,  all  beautiful  or  precious  possession  of  existence,  is,  in 
the  long-run,  this,  or  connected  with  this.  Science  itself,  is  it 
not  under  one  of  its  most  interesting  aspects,  Biography  ;  is 
it  not  the  Record  of  the  Work  which  an  original  man,  still 
named  by  us,  or  not  now  named,  was  blessed  by  the  heavens 
to  do  ?  That  Sphere- and-cylinder  is  the  monument  and  ab- 
breviated history  of  the  man  Archimedes  ;  not  to  be  forgot- 
ten, probably,  till  the  world  itself  vanish.  Of  Poets,  and 
what  they  have  done,  and  how  the  world  loves  them,  let  us, 
in  these  days,  very  singular  in  respect  of  that  art,  say  noth- 
ing, or  next  to  nothing.  The  greatest  modern  of  the  poetic 
guild  has  already  said  :  '  Nay,  if  thou  wilt  have  it,  who  but 
■  the  poet  first  formed  gods  for  us,  brought  them  down  to  us, 
'  raised  us  up  to  them  ? ' 

Another  remark,  on  a  lower  scale,  not  unworthy  of  notice, 
is  by  Jean  Paul :  that  6  as  in"  art,  so  in  conduct,  or  what  wre 
4  call  morals,  before  there  can  be  an  Aristotle  with  his  critical 
'  canons,  there  must  be  a  Homer,  many  Homers  with  their 
'  heroic  performances.'  In  plainer  words,  the  original  man  is 
the  true  creator  (or  call  him  revealer)  of  Morals  too  :  it  is 
from  his  example  that  precepts  enough  are  derived,  and  writ- 
ten down  in  books  and  systems  :  he  properly  is  the  thing  ; 
all  that  follows  after  is  but  talk  about  the  thing,  better  or 
wrorse  interpretation  of  it,  more  or  less  wearisome  and  inef- 
fectual discourse  of  logic  on  it.  A  remark  this  of  Jean  Paul's 
which,  wTell  meditated,  may  seem  one  of  the  most  pregnant 
lately  wrritten  on  these  matters.  If  any  man  had  the  ambi- 
tion of  building  a  new  system  of  morals  (not  a  promising  en- 
6 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


terprise,  at  this  time  of  day),  there  is  no  remark  known  to  us 
which  might  better  serve  him  as  a  chief  corner-stone,  whereon 
to  found,  and  to  build,  high  enough,  nothing  doubting ; — 
high,  for  instance,  as  the  Christian  Gospel  itself.  And  to 
whatever  other  heights  man's  destiny  may  yet  carry  him  !  Con- 
sider whether  it  was  not,  from  the  first,  by  example,  or  say 
rather  by  human  exemplars,  and  such  reverent  imitation  or 
abhorrent  aversion  and  avoidance  as  these  gave  rise  to,  that 
man's  duties  were  made  indubitable  to  him  ?  Also,  if  it  is 
not  yet,  in  these  last  days,  by  very  much  the  same  means 
(example,  precept,  prohibition,  '  force  of  public  opinion,'  and 
other  forcings  and  inducings),  that  the  like  result  is  brought 
about  ;  and,  from  the  Woolsack  down  to  the  Treadmill,  from 
Almack's  to  Chalk  Farm  and  the  west-end  of  Newgate,  the 
incongruous  whirlpool  of  life  is  forced  and  induced  to  whirl 
with  some  attempt  at  regularity  ?  The  two  Mosaic  Tables 
were  of  simple  limited  stone  ;  no  logic  appended  to  them  :  we, 
in  our  days,  are  privileged  with  Logic, — Systems  of  Morals, 
Professors  of  Moral  Philosophy,  Theories  of  Moral  Sentiment, 
Utilities,  Sympathies,  Moral  Senses,  not  a  few  ;  useful  for 
those  that  feel  comfort  in  them.  But  to  the  observant  eye, 
is  it  not  still  plain  that  the  rule  of  man's  life  rests  not  very 
steadily  on  logic  (rather  carries  logic  unsteadily  resting  on  it, 
as  an  excuse,  an  exposition,  or  ornamental  solacement  to  one- 
self and  others)  ;  that  ever,  as  of  old,  the  thing  a  man  will  do 
is  the  thing  he  feels  commanded  to  do  :  of  which  command, 
again,  the  origin  and  reasonableness  remains  often  as  good 
as  {^demonstrable  by  logic  ;  and,  indeed,  lies  mainly  in  this, 
That  it  has  been  demonstrated  otherwise  and  better  ;  by  ex- 
periment, namely  ;  that  an  experimental  (what  we  name 
original)  man  has  already  done  it,  and  we  have  seen  it  to  be 
good  and  reasonable,  and  now  know  it  to  be  so  once  and  for- 
evermore  ? — Enough  of  this. 

He  were  a  sanguine  individual  surely  that  should  turn  to 
the  French  Revolution  for  new  rules  of  conduct,  and  creators 
or  exemplars  of  morality, — except,  indeed,  exemplars  of  the 
gibbeted  in-terrorem  sort.    A  greater  work,  it  is  often  said, 


MIR  ABE  AU. 


83 


was  never  done  in  the  word's  history  by  men  so  small. 
Twenty-five  millions  (say  these  severe  critics)  are  hurled  forth 
out  of  all  their  old  habitudes,  arrangements,  harnessings  and 
garnitures,  into  the  new,  quite  void  arena  and  career  of  Sans* 
cullottism  ;  there  to  show  what  originality  is  in  them.  Fan- 
faronading  and  gesticulation,  vehemence,  effervescence,  heroic 
desperation,  they  do  show  in  abundance  ;  but  of  what  one  can 
call  originality,  invention,  natural  stuff  or  character,  amazingly 
little.  Their  heroic  desperation,  such  as  it  was,  we  will  honour 
and  even  venerate,  as  a  new  document  (call  it  rather  a  renewal 
of  that  primeval  ineffaceable  document  and  charter)  of  the 
manhood  of  man.  But,  for  the  rest,  there  were  Federations ; 
there  were  Festivals  of  Fraternity,  'the  Statue  of  Nature 
pouring  water  from  her  two  mammelles,' and  the  august  Depu- 
ties all  drinking  of  it  from  the  same  iron  saucer  ;  Weights  and 
Measures  were  attempted  to  be  changed  ;  the  Months  of  the 
Year  became  Pluviose,  Thermidor,  Messidor  (till  Napoleon 
said,  11  faudra  se  debarrasser  de  ce  3Iessidor,  One  must  get  this 
Messidor  sent  about  its  business)  :  also  Mrs.  Momoro  and 
others  rode  prosperous,  as  Goddesses  of  Reason  ;  and  then, 
these  being  mostly  guillotined,  Mahomet  Robespierre  did, 
with  bouquet  in  hand,  and  in  new  black  breeches,  in  front  of 
the  Tuileries,  pronounce  the  scraggiest  of  prophetic  discourses 
on  the  Eire  Supreme,  and  set  fire  to  much  emblematic  paste- 
board : — all  this,  and  an  immensity  of  such,  the  Twenty-five 
millions  did  devise  and  accomplish ;  but  (apart  from  their 
heroic  desperation,  which  was  no  miracle  either,  beside  that  of 
the  old  Dutch,  for  instance)  this,  and  the  like  of  this,  was 
almost  all.  Their  arena  of  Sansculottism  was  the  most  original 
arena  opened  to  man  for  above  a  thousand  years ;  and  they, 
at  bottom,  were  unexpectedly  commonplace  in  it.  Exag- 
gerated commonplace,  triviality  run  distracted,  and  a  kind 
of  universal  'Frenzy  of  John  Dennis,'  is  the  figure  they  ex- 
hibit. The  brave  For ster,— sinking  slowly  of  broken  heart, 
in  the  midst  of  that  volcanic  chaos  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
and  clinging  still  to  the  cause,  which,  though  now  bloody 
and  terrible,  he  believed  to  be  the  highest,  and  for  which  he 
had  sacrificed  all,  country,  kindred,  fortune,  friends  and  life, 


84 


M IE  A  BE  A  V, 


— compares  the  Revolution,  indeed,  to  '  an  explosion  and  new 
creation  of  the  world ; '  but  the  actors  in  it,  who  went  buzzing 
about  him,  to  a  '  handooll  miickcn,  handful  of  flies.' 1  And  yet, 
one  may  add,  this  same  explosion  of  a  world  was  their  work  ; 
the  work  of  these — flies  ?  The  truth  is,  neither  Forster  nor 
any  man  can  see  a  French  Revolution  ;  it  is  like  seeing  the 
ocean  :  poor  Charles  Lamb  complained  that  he  could  not  see 
the  multitudinous  ocean  at  all,  but  only  some  insignificant 
fraction  of  it  from  the  deck  of  the  Margate  hoy.  It  must  be 
owned,  howTever  (urge  these  severe  critics),  that  examples  of 
rabid  triviality  abound  in  the  French  Revolution,  to  a  lament- 
able extent.  Consider  Maximilien  Robespierre ;  for  the 
greater  part  of  two  years  what  one  may  call  Autocrat  ot 
France.  A  poor  sea-green  (verddtre),  atrabiliar  Formula  of  a 
man  ;  without  head,  without  heart,  or  any  grace,  gift,  or  even 
vice  beyond  common,  if  it  were  not  vanity,  astucity,  diseased 
rigour  (which  some  count  strength)  as  of  a  cramp  :  really  a 
most  poor  sea-green  individual  in  spectacles  ;  meant  by  Na- 
ture for  a  Methodist  parson  of  the  stricter  sort,  to  doom  men 
"  who  departed  from  the  written  confession  ;  to  chop  fruitless 
shrill  logic  ;  to  contend,  and  suspect,  and  ineffectually  wrestle 
and  wriggle  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  to  love,  or  to  know,  or  to  be 
(properly  speaking)  Nothing  : — this  was  he  who,  the  sport  of 
wracking  winds,  saw  himself  whirled  aloft  to  command  la 
premiere  nation  de  Vunivers,  and  all  men  shouting  long  life  to 
him :  one  of  the  most  lamentable,  tragic,  sea-green  objects, 
ever  whirled  aloft  in  that  manner,  in  any  country,  to  his  own 
swift  destruction,  and  the  world's  long  wonder  ! 

So  argue  these  severe  critics  of  the  French  Revolution,  with 
whom  we  argue  not  here  ;  but  remark  rather,  what  is  more  to 
the  purpose,  that  the  French  Revolution  did  disclose  original 
men  :  among  the  twenty-five  millions,  at  least  one  or  two  units. 
Some  reckon,  in  the  present  stage  of  the  business,  as  many  as 
three  :  Napoleon,  Danton,  Mirabeau.  Whether  more  will 
come  to  light,  or  of  what  sort,  when  the  computation  is  quite 
liquidated,  one  cannot  say  :  meanwhile  let  the  world  be  thank- 
ful for  these  three  ; — as,  indeed,  the  world  is  ;  loving  original 
1  Foreter's  Briefs  und  Nachlass. 


M IRA  BE  A  U. 


85 


men,  without  limit,  were  they  never  so  questionable,  well 
knowing  how  rare  they  are  !  To  us,  accordingly,  it  is  rather 
interesting  to  observe  how  on  these  three  also,  questionable  as 
they  surely  are,  the  old  process  is  repeating  itself  ;  how  these 
also  are  getting  known  in  their  true  likeness.  A  second  gen- 
eration, relieved  in  some  measure  from  the  spectral  hallucina- 
tions, hysterical  ophthalmia  and  natural  panic-delirium  of  the 
first  contemporary  one,  is  gradually  coming  to  discern  and 
measure  what  its  predecessor  could  only  execrate  and  shriek 
over :  for,  as  our  Proverb  said,  the  dust  is  sinking,  the  rub- 
bish-heaps disappear  ;  the  built  house,  such  as  it  is,  and  was 
appointed  to  be,  stands  visible,  better  or  worse. 

Of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  what  with  so  many  bulletins,  and 
such  self-proclamation  from  artillery  and  battle-thunder,  loud 
enough  to  ring  through  the  deafest  brain,  in  the  remotest 
nook  of  this  earth,  and  now,  in  consequence,  with  so  many 
biographies,  histories  and  historical  arguments  for  and  against, 
it  may  be  said  that  he  can  now  shift  for  himself  ;  that  his  true 
figure  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being  ascertained.  Doubtless  it  will 
be  found  one  day  what  significance  was  in  him  ;  how  (we 
quote  from  a  New-England  Book)  £the  man  was  a  divine  mis- 

•  sionary,  though  unconscious  of  it  ;  and  preached,  through 
'the  cannon's  throat,  that  great  doctrine,  "La  carriere  ouverte 
{aux  talens,  The  tools  to  him  that  can  handle  them,"  which  is 
'  our  ultimate  Political  Evangel,  wherein  alone  can  Liberty  lie. 

*  Madly  enough  he  preached,  it  is  true,  as  enthusiasts  and 
'  first  missionaries  are  wont  ;  with  imperfect  utterance,  amid 
'much  frothy  rant;  yet  as  articulately  perhaps  as  the  case  ad- 
\  mitted.  Or  call  him,  if  you  will,  an  American  backwoods- 
'  man,  who  had  to  fell  unpenetrated  forests,  and  battle  with 
'  innumerable  wolves,  and  did  not  entirely  forbear  strong 
'  liquor,  rioting  and  even  theft  ;  whom,  nevertheless,  the 
'  peaceful  sower  will  follow,  and,  as  he  cuts  the  boundless  har- 
'  vest,  bless.' — From  'the  incarnate  Moloch/  which  the  word 
once  was,  onwards  to  this  quiet  version,  there  is  a  consider- 
able progress. 

Still  more  interesting  is  it,  not  without  a  touch  almost  of 
pathos,  to  see  how  the  rugged  Terrce  Films  Danton  begins 


80 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


likewise  to  emerge,  from  amid  the  blood-tinted  obscurations 
and  shadows  of  horrid  cruelty,  into  calm  light  ;  and  seems 
now  not  an  Anthropophagus,  but  partly  a  man.  On  the 
whole,  the  Earth  feels  it  to  be  something  to  have  a  '  Son  of 
Earth  ; '  any  reality,  rather  than  a  hypocrisy  and  formula ! 
With  a  man  that  wTent  honestly  to  work  with  himself,  and 
said  and  acted,  in  any  sense,  with  the  whole  mind  of  him, 
there  is  always  something  to  be  done.  Satan  himself,  accord- 
ing to  Daiite,  was  a  praiseworthy  object,  compared  with  those 
juHte-milieu  angels  (so  over-numerous  in  times  like  ours)  who 
'  were  neither  faithful  nor  rebellious,'  but  were  for  their  little 
selves  only :  trimmers,  moderates,  plausible  persons,  who,  in 
the  Dantean  Hell,  are  found  doomed  to  this  frightful  penalty, 
that  6  they  have  not  the  hope  to  die  (non  han  speranza  di 
morte) ; '  but  sunk  in  torpid  death-life,  in  mud  and  the  plague 
of  flies,  they  are  to  doze  and  dree  forever, — 4  hateful  to  God 
and  to  the  Enemies  of  God  : ' 

*  Non  ragionam  di  lor,  ma  guarda  e  passa  !  9 

If  Bonaparte  were  the  4  armed  Soldier  of  Democracy,'  invin- 
cible while  he  continued  true  to  that,  then  let  us  call  this  Dan- 
ton  the  Enfant  Perdu,  and  tmenlisted  Revolter  and  Titan  of 
Democracy,  which  could  not  yet  have  soldiers  or  discipline, 
but  was  by  the  nature  of  it  lawless.  An  Earthborn,  we  say, 
yet  honestly  born  of  Earth !  In  the  Memoir*  of  Garat,  and 
elsewdiere,  one  sees  these  fire-eyes  beam  with  earnest  insight, 
fill  with  the  water  of  tears  ;  the  broad  rude  features  speak 
withal  of  wild  human  sympathies  ;  that  Antaeus'  bosom  also' 
held  a  heart.  "It  is  not  the  alarm-camion  that  you  hear,'' 
cries  he  to  the  terror-struck,  when  the  Prussians  were  already 
at  Verdun  :  ' •  it  is  the  pas  de  charge  against  our  enemies." 
"  De  I'audace,  et  encore  de  Vaudace,  et  toujour*  de  Vaudace.  To 
dare,  and  again  to  dare,  and  without  limit  to  dare  !  " — 
there  is  nothing  left  but  that.  Poor  £  Mirabeau  of  the  Sans- 
culottes,' what  a  mission  !  And  it  could  not  be  but  done, — 
and  it  was  done  !  But  indeed,  may  there  not  be,  if  well  con- 
sidered, more  virtue  in  this  feeling  itself,  once  bursting  ear- 
nest from  the  wild  heart,  than  in  whole  lives  of  immaculate 


MIR  ABE AU. 


87 


Pharisees  and  Respectabilities,  with  their  eye  ever  set  on 
'character,'  and  the  letter  of  the  law:  "Que  mon  nom  soit 
fletri,  Let  my  name  be  blighted,  then  ;  let  the  Cause  be  glori- 
ous, and  have  victory  !  "  By-and-by,  as  we  predict,  the  Friend 
of  Humanity,  since  so  many  Knife-grinders  have  no  story  to 
tell  him,  will  find  some  sort  of  story  in  this  Dan  ton.  A  rough - 
hewn  giant  of  a  man,  not  anthropophagous  entirely  ;  whose 
'figures  of  speech/  and  also  of  action,  'are  all  gigantic;' 
whose  '  voice  reverberates  from  the  domes,'  and  dashes  Bruns- 
wick across  the  marches  in  a  very  wrecked  condition.  Always 
his  total  freedom  from  cant  is  one  thing  ;  even  in  his  briber- 
ies, and  sins  as  to  money,  there  is  a  frankness,  a  kind  of  broad 
greatness.  Sincerity,  a  great  rude  sincerity  of  insight  and  of 
purpose,  dwelt  in  the  man,  which  quality  is  the  root  of  all :  a 
man  who  could  see  through  many  things,  and  would  stop  at 
very  few  things  ;  who  marched  and  fought  impetuously  for- 
ward, in  the  questionablest  element ;  and  now  bears  the  pen- 
alty, in  a  name  'blighted,'  yet,  as  we  say,  visibly  clearing 
itself.  Once  cleared,  why  should  not  this  name  too  have  sig- 
nificance for  men  ?  The  wild  history  is  a  tragedy,  as  all 
human  histories  are.  Brawny  Dantons,  still  to  the  present 
hour,  rend  the  glebe,  as  simple  brawny  Farmers,  and  reap  » 
peaceable  harvests,  at  Arcis-sur-Aube  ;  and  this  Danton — !  It 
is  an  imrhymed  tragedy  ;  very  bloody,  fuliginous  (after  the 
manner  of  the  elder  dramatists)  ;  yet  full  of  tragic  elements ; 
not  undeserving  natural  pity  and  fear.  In  quiet  times,  per- 
haps still  at  a  great  distance,  the  happier  onlooker  may  stretch 
out  the  hand,  across  dim  centuries,  to  him,  and  say:  "Ill- 
starred  brother,  how  thou  foughtest  with  wild  lion-strength, 
and  yet  not  with  strength  enough,  and  flamedst  aloft,  and  wert 
trodden  down  of  sin  and  misery  ; — behold,  thou  also  wert  a 
man  !  "  It  is  said  there  lies  a  Biography  of  Danton  written, 
in  Paris,  at  this  moment :  but  the  editor  waits  till  the  '  force 
of  public  opinion '  ebb  a  little.  Let  him  publish,  with  utmost 
convenient  despatch,  and  say  what  he  knows,  if  he  do  know 
it :  the  lives  of  remarkable  men  are  always  worth  understand- 
ing instead  of  misunderstanding  ;  and  public  opinion  must 
positively  adjust  itself  the  best  way  it  can. 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


But  without  doubt  the  far  most  interesting,  best-gifted  oi 
this  questionable  trio  is  not  the  Mirabeau  of  the  Sansculottes, 
but  the  Mirabeau  himself  :  a  man  of  much  finer  nature  than 
either  of  the  others  ;  of  a  genius  equal  in  strength,  we  will 
say,  to  Napoleon's  ;  but  a  much  humaner  genius,  almost  a 
poetic  one.  With  wider  sympathies  of  his  own,  he  appeals 
far  more  persuasively  to  the  sympathies  of  men. 

Of  him  too  it  is  interesting  to  notice  the  progressive  dawn- 
ing, out  of  calumny,  misrepresentation  and  confused  darkness, 
into  visibility  and  light  ;  and  how  the  world  manifests  its  con- 
tinued curiosity  about  him  ;  and  as  book  after  book  comes 
forth  with  new  evidence,  the  matter  is  again  taken  up,  the 
old  judgment  on  it  revised  and  anew  revised  ; — whereby,  in 
fine,  we  ..can  hope  the  right,  or  approximately  right,  sentence 
will  be  found  ;  and  so  the  question  be  left  settled.  It  would 
seem  this  Mirabeau  also  is  one  whose  memory  the  world  will 
not,  for  a  long  while,  let  die.  Very  different  from  many  -a 
high  memory,  dead  and  deep-buried  long  since  then  !  In  his 
lifetime,  even  in  the  final  effulgent  part  of  it,  this  Mirabeau 
took  upon  him  to  write,  with  a  sort  of  awe-struck  feeling,  to 
our  Mr.  Wilberforce  ;  and  did  not,  that  we  can  find,  get  the 
benefit  of  any  answer.  Pitt  was  prime  minister,  and  then 
Fox,  then  again  Pitt,  and  again  Fox,  in  sweet  vicissitude  ;  and 
the  noise  of  them,  reverberating  through  Brookes's  and  the 
club-rooms,  through  tavern-dinners,  electioneering  hustings, 
leading-articles,  filled  all  the  earth  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  those 
two  (though  which  might  be  ivhich,  you  could  not  say)  were 
the  Ormuzd  and  Ahriman  of  political  Nature  ; — and  now ! 
Such  difference  is  there,  once  more,  between  an  original  man, 
of  never  such  questionable  sort,  and  the  most  dexterous,  cun- 
ningly-devised parliamentary  mill.  The  difference  is  great  ; 
and  one  of  those  on  which  the  future  time  makes  largest  con- 
trast with  the  present.  Nothing  can  be  more  important  than 
the  mill  while  it  continues  and  grinds  ;  important,  above  all, 
to  those  who  have  sacks  about  the  hopper.  But  the  grinding 
once  done,  how  can  the  memory  of  it  endure?  It  is  impor- 
tant now  to  no  individual,  not  even  to  the  individual  with 
a  sack.    So  that,  this  tumult  well  over,  the  memory  of  the 


MIR  ABE  AIL 


89 


original  man,  and  of  what  small  revelation  he,  as  Son  of  Nature 
and  brother-man,  could  make,  does  naturally  rise  on  us  :  his 
memorable  sayings,  actings  and  sufferings,  the  very  vices  and 
crimes  he  fell  into,  are  a  kind  of  pabulum  which  all  mortals 
claim  their  right  to. 

Concerning  Peuchet,  Chaussard,  Gassicourt,  and,  indeed,  all 
the  former  Biographers  of  Mirabeau,  there  can  little  be  said 
here,  except  that  they  abound  with  errors  :  the  present  ulti- 
mate Fils  Adoptif  has  never  done  picking  faults  with  them. 
Not  as  memorials  of  Mirabeau,  but  as  memorials  of  the 
world's  relation  to  him,  of  the  world's  treatment  of  him, 
they  may,  a  little  longer,  have  some  perceptible  significance. 
From  poor  Peuchet  (he  was  known  in  the  Moniteur  once), 
and  other  the  like  labourers  in  the  vineyard,  you  can  justly 
demand  thus  much  ;  and  not  justly  much  more. 

Etienne  Dumont's  Sou wriirs  stir  Mirabeau  might  not,  at  first 
sight,  seem  an  advance  towards  true  knowledge,  but  a  move- 
ment the  other  way,  and  yet  it  was  really  an  advance.  The 
book,  for  one  thing,  was  hailed  by  a  universal  choral  blast 
from  all  manner  of  reviews  and  periodical  literatures  that 
Europe,  in  all  its  spellable  dialects,  had  :  whereby,  at  least, 
the  minds  of  men  were  again  drawn  to  the  subject ;  and  so, 
amid  whatever  hallucination,  ancient  or  new-devised,  some 
increase  of  insight  was  unavoidable.  Besides,  the  book  itself 
did  somewhat.  Numerous  specialties  about  the  great  French- 
man, as  read  by  the  eyes  of  the  little  Genevese,  were  conveyed 
there  ;  and  could  be  deciphered,  making  allowances.  Dumont 
is  faithful,  veridical ;  within  his  own  limits  he  has  even  a  cer- 
tain freedom,  a  picturesqueness  and  light  clearness.  It  is 
true,  the  whim  he  had  of  looking  at  the  great  Mirabeau  as  a 
thing  set  in  motion  mainly  by  him  (M.  Dumont)  and  such  as 
he,  was  one  of  the  most  wouderful  to  be  met  with  in  psychol- 
ogy. Nay,  more  wonderful  still,  how  the  reviewers,  pretty 
generally,  some  from  whom  better  was  expected,  took  up  the 
same  with  aggravations  ;  and  it  seemed  settled  on  all  sides, 
that  here  again  a  pretender  had  been  stripped,  and  the  great 
made  as  little  as  the  rest  of  us  (much  to  our  comfort)  ;  that, 
in  fact,  figuratively  speaking,  this  enormous  Mirabeau,  the 


90 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


sound  of  whom  went  forth  to  all  lands,  was  no  other  than  an 
enormous  trumpet,  or  coach-horn,  of  japanned  tin,  through 
which  a  dexterous  little  M.  Dumont  was  blowing  all  the  while, 
and  making  the  noise  !  Some  men  and  reviewers  have  strange 
theories  of  man.  Let  any  son  of  Adam,  the  shallowest  now 
living,  try  honestly  to  scheme  out,  within  his  head,  an  exist- 
ence of  this  kind  ;  and  say  how  verisimilar  it  looks  !  A  life 
and  business  actually  conducted  on  such  coach-horn  principle, 
— we  say  not  the  life  and  business  of  a  statesman  and  world- 
leader,  but  say  of  the  poorest  laceman  and  tape-seller, — were 
one  of  the  chief  miracles  hitherto  on  record.  O,  M.  Dumont ! 
But  thus  too,  when  old  Sir  Christopher  struck  down  the  last 
stone  in  the  Dome  of  St.  Paul's,  was  it  he  that  carried  up  the 
stone  ?  No  ;  it  was  a  certain  strong-backed  man,  never  men- 
tioned (covered  with  envious  or  unenvious  oblivion), — prob- 
ably of  the  Sister  Island. 

-  Let  us  add,  however,  more  plainly,  that  M.  Dumont  was 
less  to  blame  here  than  his  reviewers  were.  The  good  Du- 
mont accurately  records  what  ingenious  journey-work  and 
fetching-and-carrying  he  did  for  his  Mirabeau  ;  interspersing 
many  an  anecdote,  which  the  world  is  very  glad  of ;  extenu- 
ating nothing,  we  do  hope,  nor  exaggerating  anything :  this 
is  what  he  did,  and  had  a  clear  right  and  call  to  do.  And 
what  if  it  failed,  not  altogether,  yet  in  some  measure  if  it 
did  fail,  to  strike  him,  that  he  still  properly  was  but  a  Du- 
mont? Nay,  that  the  gift  this  Mirabeau  had  of  enlisting 
such  respectable  Dumonts  to  do  hodwork  and  even  skilful 
handiwork  for  him  ;  and  of  ruling  them  and  bidding  them  by 
the  look  of  his  eye  ;  and  of  making  them  cheerfully  fetch- 
and-carry  for  him,  and  serve  him  as  loyal  subjects,  with  a 
kind  of  chivalry  and  willingness, — that  this  gift  was  precisely 
the  kinghood  of  the  man,  and  did  itself  stamp  him  as  a  leader 
among  men  !  Let  no  man  blame  M.  Dumont  (as  some  have 
too  harshly  done)  ;  his  error  is  of  oversight,  and  venial ;  his 
worth  to  us  is  indisputable.  On  the  other  hand,  let  all  men 
blame  such  public  instructors  and  periodical  individuals  as 
drew  that  inference  and  life-theory  for  him,  and  brayed  it  forth 
in  that  loud  manner ;  or  rather,  on  the  whole,  do  not  blame,  but 


Mill  ABE  A  U. 


91 


pardon,  and  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Such  things  are  m 
ordained  trial  of  public  patience,  which  perhaps  is  the  better  for 
discipline  ;  and  seldom,  or  rather  never,  do  any  lasting  injury. 

Close  following  on  Dumont's  Reminiscences  came  this  Bi- 
ography by  M.  Lucas  Montigny,  £  Adopted  Son  ; '  the  first 
volume  in  1834,  the  rest  at  short  intervals  ;  and  lies  complete 
now  in  Eight  considerable  Volumes  octavo  :  concerning  which 
we  are  now  to  speak, — unhappily,  in  the  disparaging  sense. 
In  fact  it  is  impossible  for  any  man  to  say  unmixed  good  of 
M.  Lucas's  work.  That  he,  as  Adopted  Son,  has  lent  himself 
so  resolutely  to  the  washing  of  his  hero  white,  and  even  to 
the  white-washing  of  him  where  the  natural  colour  was  black, 
be  this  no  blame  to  him  ;  or  even,  if  you  will,  be  it  praise. 
If  a  man's  Adopted  Son  may  not  write  the  best  book  he  can 
for  him,  then  who  may?  But  the  fatal  circumstance  is,  that 
M.  Lucas  Montigny  has  not  written  a  book  at  all ;  but  has 
merely  clipped  and  cut  out,  and  cast  together  the  materials 
for  a  book,  which  other  men  are  still  wanted  to  write.  On 
the  whole  M.  Montigny  rather  surprises  one.  For  the  reader 
probably  knows,  what  all  the  world  whispers  to  itself,  that 
when  £  Mirabeau  in  1783,  adopted  this  infant  born  the  year 
before/  he  had  the  best  of  all  conceivable  obligations  to  adopt 
him  ;  having,  by  his  own  act  (ncm-notarial),  summoned  him 
to  appear  in  this  World.  And  now  consider  both  what  Shak- 
speare's  Edmund,  what  Poet  Savage,  and  such  like,  have 
bragged  ;  and  also  that  the  Mirabeaus,  from  time  immemo- 
rial, had  (like  a  certain  British  kindred  known  to  us)  '  pro- 
duced many  a  blackguard,  but  not  one  blockhead  ! '  We  al- 
most discredit  that  statement,  which  all  the  world  whispers 
to  itself  ;  or,  if  crediting  it,  pause  over  the  ruins  of  families. 
The  Haarlem  canal  is  not  flatter  than  M.  Montigny's  genius. 
He  wants  the  talent  which  seems  born  with  all  Frenchmen, 
that  of  presenting  what  knowledge  he  has  in  the  most  know- 
able  form.  One  of  the  solidest  men,  too  ;  doubtless  a  valua- 
ble man ;  whom  it  were  so  pleasant  for  us  to  praise,  if  we 
could.  May  he  be  happy  in  a  private  station,  and  never  write 
more  ; — except  for  the  Bureaux  de  Prefecture,  with  tolerably 
handsome  official  appointments,  which  is  far  better. 


92 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


His  biographical  work  is  a  monstrous  quarry,  or  mound  of 
shot-rubbish,  in  eight  strata,  hiding  valuable  matter,  which 
he  that  seeks  will  find.  Valuable,  we  say  ;  for  the  Adopted 
Son  having  access,  nay  welcome  and  friendly  entreaty,  to 
family  papers,  to  all  manner  of  archives,  secret  records ;  and 
working  therein  long  years,  with  a  filial  unweariedness,  has 
made  himself  piously  at  home  in  all  corners  of  the  matter. 
He  might  with  the  same  spirit  (as  we  always  upbraid ingly 
think),  so  easily  have  riiade  us  at  home  too !  But  no :  he 
brings  to  light  things  new  and  old ,  now  precious  illustrative 
private  documents,  now  the  poorest  public  heaps  of  mere 
pamphleteer  and  parliamentary  matter,  so  attainable  else- 
where, often  so  omissible  were  it  not  to  be  attained  ;  and 
jumbles  and  tumbles  the  whole  together  with  such  reckless 
clumsiness,  with  such  endless  copiousness  (having  wagons 
enough),  as  gives  the  reader  many  a  pang.  The  very  pains 
bestowed  on  it  are  often  perverse  ;  the  whole  is  become  so 
hard,  heavy  ;  unworkable,  except  in  the  sweat  of  one's  brow  ! 
Or  call  it  a  mine, — artificial-natural  silver  mine.  Threads  of 
beautiful  silver  ore  lie  scattered,  which  you  must  dig  for,  and 
sift  :  suddenly,  when  your  thread  or  vein  is  at  the  richest,  it 
vanishes  (as  is  the  way  with  mines)  in  thick  masses  of  agglom- 
erate and  pudding-stone,  no  man  can  guess  whither.  This 
is  not  as  it  should  be  ;  and  yet  unfortunately  it  could  be  no 
other.  The  long  bad  book  is  so  much  easier  to  do  than  the 
brief  good  one  ;  and  a  poor  bookseller  has  no  way  of  meas- 
uring and  paying  but  by  the  ell,  cubic  or  superficial.  The 
very  weaver  comes  and  says,  not  "I  have  woven  so  many  ells 
of  stuff,"  but  "  so  many  ells  of  such  stuff:"  satin  and  Cash- 
mere-shawl stuff, — or,  if  it  be  so,  duffle  and  coal-sacking,  and 
even  cobweb  stuff. 

Undoubtedly  the  Adopted  Son's  will  was  good.  Ought  we 
not  to  rejoice  greatly  in  the  possession  of  these  same  silver- 
veins  ;  and  take  them  in  the  buried  mineral  state,  or  in  any 
state  ;  too  thankful  to  have  them  now  indestructible,  now  that 
they  are  printed  ?  Let  the  world,  we  say,  be  thankful  to  M. 
Montigny,  and  yet  know  what  it  is  they  are  thanking  him  for. 
No  Life  of  Mirabeau  is  to  be  found  in  these  Volumes,  but  the 


MIR  ABE  A  U.  93 

amplest  materials  for  writing  a  Life.  Were  the  Eight  Vol- 
umes well  riddled  and  smelted  down  into  One  Volume,  such 
as  might  be  made,  that  one  were  the  volume  !  Nay  it  seems 
an  enterprise  of  such  uses,  and  withal  so  feasible,  that  some 
day  it  is  as  good  as  sure  to  be  done,  and  again  done,  and 
finally  well  done. 

The  present  reviewer,  restricted  to  a  mere  article,  purposes, 
nevertheless,  to  sift  and  extract  somewhat.  He  has  bored 
(so  to  speak)  and  run  mine-shafts  through  the  book  in  vari- 
ous directions,  and  knows  pretty  w*ell  what  is  in  it,  though 
indeed  not  so  well  where  to  find  the  same,  having  unfortu- 
nately (as  reviewers  are  wont)  '  mislaid  our  paper  of  refer- 
ences ! '  "Wherefore,  if  the  best  extracts  be  not  presented,  let 
not  M.  Lucas  suffer.  By  one  means  and  another,  some  sketch 
of  Mirabeau's  history  ;  what  befell  him  successively  in  this 
World,  and  wThat  steps  he  successively  took  in  consequence  ; 
and  howr  he  and  it,  working  together,  made  the  thing  we  call 
Mirabeau's  Life, — may  be  brought  out ;  extremely  imper- 
fect, yet  truer,  one  can  hope,  than  the  Biographical  Diction- 
aries and  ordinary  voice  of  rumour  give  it.  Whether,  and  if 
so,  where  and  how,  the  current  estimate  of  Mirabeau  is  to  be 
rectified,  fortified,  or  in  any  important  point  overset  and 
expunged,  will  hereby  come  to  light,  almost  of  itself,  as  we 
proceed.  Indeed  it  is  very  singular,  considering  the  emphatic 
judgments  daily  uttered,  in  print  and  speech,  about  this  man, 
what  Egyptian  obscurity  rests  over  the  mere  facts  of  his  ex- 
ternal history  ;  the  right  knowledge  of  which,  one  wTould 
fancy,  must  be  the  preliminary  of  any  judgment,  however  faint, 
But  thus,  as  we  always  urge,  are  such  judgments  generally 
passed  :  vague  plebiscita,  decrees  of  the  common  people  ;  made 
up  of  innumerable  loud  empty  ayes  and  loud  empty  noes  ; 
which  are  without  meaning,  and  have  only  sound  and  cur- 
rency :  plebiscita  needing  so  much  revisal ! — To  the  work, 
however. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  elements  in  these  Eight  chaotic 
Volumes  of  M.  Montigny  is  the  knowledge  he  communicates 
of  Mirabeau's  father  ;  of  his  kindred  and  family,  contemporary 


94 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


and  anterior.  The  father  we  in  general  knew,  was  Victoi 
Riquetti,  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  called  and  calling  himself  the 
Friend  of  Men  ;  a  title,  for  the  rest,  which  bodes  him  no 
good,  in  these  days  of  ours.  Accordingly  one  heard  it  added 
with  little  surprise,  that  this  Friend  of  Men  was  the  enemy  of 
almost  every  man  he  had  to  do  with  ;  beginning  at  his  own 
hearth,  ending  at  the  utmost  circle  of  his  acquaintance  ;  and 
only  beyond  that,  feeling  himself  free  to  love  men.  "  The 
old  hypocrite  !  "  cry  many, — not  we.  Alas,  it  is  so  much 
easier  to  love  men  while  they  exist  only  on  paper,  or  quite 
flexible  and  compliant  in  your  immagination,  than  to  love 
Jack  and  Kit  who  stand  there  in  the  body,  hungry,  untoward  ; 
jostling  you,  barring  you,  with  angular  elbows,  with  appe- 
tites, irascibilities  and  a  stupid  will  of  their  own  !  There  is 
no  doubt  but  old  Marquis  Mirabeau  found  it  extremely  difficult 
to  get  on  with  his  brethren  of  mankind  ;  and  proved  a 
crabbed,  sulphurous,  choleric  old  gentleman,  many  a  sad 
time  :  nevertheless,  there  is  much  to  be  set  right  in  that 
matter;  and  M.  Lucas,  if  one  can  carefully  follow  him,  has 
managed  to  do  it.  Had  M.  Lucas  but  seen  good  to  print 
these  private  letters,  family  documents,  and  more  of  them  (for 
he  ■  could  make  thirty  octavo  volumes  ' ),  in  a  separate  state  ; 
in  mere  chronological  order,  with  some  small  commentary  of 
annotation  ;  and  to  leave  all  the  rest  alone  ! — As  it  is,  one 
must  search  and  sift.  Happily  the  old  Marquis  himself,  in 
periods  of  leisure,  or  forced  leisure,  whereof  he  had  many, 
drew-up  certain  '  unpublished  memoirs'  of  his  father  and 
progenitors  ;  out  of  which  memoirs  young  Mirabeau  also  in 
forced  leisure  (still  more  forced,  in  the  Castle  of  If!)  redacted 
one  Memoir,  of  a  very  readable  sort  :  by  the  light  of  this 
latter,  so  far  as  it  will  last,  we  walk  with  convenience. 

The  Mirabeaus  were  Riquettis  by  surname,  which  is  a 
slight  corruption  of  the  Italian  Arrighelti.  They  came  from 
Florence  :  cast  out  of  it  in  some  Guelph-Ghibelline  quarrel, 
such  as  were  common  there  and  then,  in  the  year  1267 
Stormy  times  then,  as  now  !  The  chronologist  can  remark 
that  Dante  Alighieri  was  a  little  boy,  of  some  two  years,  that 
morning  the  Arrighettis  had  to  go,  and  men  had  to  say^ 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


95 


*£  They  are  gone,  these  villains  !  They  are  gone,  these  mar- 
tyrs !  "  the  little  boy  listening  with  interest.  Let  the  boy 
become  a  man,  and  he  too  shall  have  to  go  ;  and  prove  come 
hdu.ro  calle,  and  what  a  world  this  is;  and  have  his  poet- 
nature  not  killed,  for  it  would  not  kill,  but  darkened  into 
Old-Hebrew  sternness,  and  sent  onwards  to  Hades  and  Eter- 
nity for  a  home  to  itself.  As  Dame  Quickly  said  in  the 
Dream — "  Those  were  rare  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole  !  " — "  Pretty 
much  like  our  own,"  answered  he.  —  In  this  manner  did 
the  Arrighettis  (doubtless  in  grim  Longobardic  ire)  scale  the 
Alps ;  and  become  Tramontane  French  Riquettis ;  and  pro- 
duce,—  among  other  things,  the  present  Article  in  this  Re- 
view. 

It  was  hinted  above  that  these  Riquettis  were  a  notable 
kindred  ;  as  indeed  there  is  great  likelihood,  if  we  knew  it 
rightly,  the  kindred  and  fathers  of  most  notable  men  are. 
The  Vaucluse  fountain,  that  gushes  out  as  a  river,  may  well 
have  run  some  space  under  ground  in  that  character,  before 
it  found  vent.  Nay  perhaps  it  is  not  always,  or  often,  the  in- 
trinsically greatest  of  a  family-line  that  becomes  the  noted 
one,  but  only  the  best  favored  of  fortune.  So  rich  here,  as 
elsewhere,  is  Nature,  the  mighty  Mother  ;  and  scatters  from 
a  single  Oak-tree,  as  provender  for  pigs,  what  would  plant 
the  whole  Planet  into  an  oak  -  forest !  For  truly,  if  there 
were  not  a  mute  force  in  her,  where  were  she  with  the  speak- 
ing and  exhibiting  one  ?  If  under  that  frothy  superficies  of 
braggarts,  babblers  and  high-sounding,  richly-decorated  per- 
sonages, that  strut  and  fret,  and  preach  in  all  times  Quam 
parvd  sapientid  regatur,  there  lay  not  some  substratum  of 
silently  heroic  men  :  working  as  men  ;  with  man's  energy, 
enduring  and  endeavoring ;  invincible,  who  whisper  not 
even  to  themselves  how  energetic  they  are? — The  Riquetti 
family  was,  in  some  measure,  defined  already  by  analogy  to 
that  British  one  ;  as  a  family  totally  exempt  from  block- 
heads, but  a  little  liable  to  produce  blackguards.  It  took 
root  in  Provence,  and  bore  strong  southern  fruit  there  :  a 
restless,  stormy  line  of  men  ;  with  the  wild  blood  running  in 
them,  and  as  if  there  had  been  a  doom  hung  over  them  ('like 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


the  line  of  Atreus,'  Mirabeau  used  to  say) :  which  really  there 
was,  the  wild  blood  itself  being  doom  enough.  How  long*  they 
had  stormed  in  Florence  and  elsewhere,  these  Kiquettis,  his- 
tory knows  not ;  but  for  the  space  of  those  five  centuries,  in 
Provence,  they  were  never  without  a  man  to  stand  Riquetti- 
like  on  the  earth.  Men  sharp  of  speech,  prompt  of  stroke  ; 
men  quick  to  discern,  fierce  to  resolve  ;  headlong,  headstrong, 
strong  every  way  ;  wTho  often  found  the  civic  race-course  too 
strait  for  them,  and  kicked  against  the  pricks  ;  doing  this 
thing  or  the  other,  which  the  world  had  to  animadvert  upon, 
in  various  dialects,  and  find  '  clean  against  rule/ 

One  Kiquetti  (in  performance  of  some  vow  at  sea,  as  the 
tradition  goes)  chained  two  mountains  together :  '  the  iron 
'  chain  is  still  to  be  seen  at  Moustier  ; — it  stretches  from  one 
'  mountain  to  the  other,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  there  is  a 
'  large  star  with  five  rays  ; '  the  supposed  date  is  1390.  Fancy 
the  smiths  at  work  on  this  business  !  The  town  of  Moustier 
is  in  the  Basse s-Alpes  of  Provence  :  whether  the  Kiquetti 
chain  creeks  there  to  this  hour,  and  lazily  sways  in  the  winds, 
with  its  c  star  of  five  rays '  in  the  centre,  and  offers  an  uncer- 
tain perch  to  the  sparrow,  we  know  not.  Or  perhaps  it  was 
cut  down  in  the  Revolution  time,  when  there  rose  such  a 
hatred  of  noblesse,  such  a  famine  for  iron  ;  and  made  into 
pikes  ?  The  Adopted  Son,  so  minute  generally,  ought  to  have 
mentioned,  but  does  not — That  there  was  building  of  hospitals, 
endowing  of  convents,  Chartreux,  Kecollets,  down  even  to 
Jesuits  ;  still  more,  that  there  was  harrying  and  fighting,  needs 
not  be  mentioned  :  except  only  that  all  this  went  on  with  un- 
common emphasis  among  the  Eiquettis.  What  quarrel  could 
there  be  and  a  Kiquetti  not  in  it  ?  They  fought  much  :  with 
an  eye  to  profit,  to  redress  of  disprofit ;  probably  too  for  the 
art's  sake. 

What  proved  still  more  rational,  they  got  footing  in  Mar- 
seilles as  trading  nobles  (a  kind  of  French  Venice  in  those 
days),  and  took  with  great  diligence  to  commerce.  The  family 
biographers  are  careful  to  say  that  it  was  in  the  Venetian  style, 
however,  and  not  ignoble.  In  which  sense,  indeed,  one  of 
their  sharp-spoken  ancestors,  on  a  certain  bishop's  uncere- 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


97 


moniously  styling  him  '  Jean  de  Riquetti,  Merchant  of  Mar- 
seilles,' made  ready  answer:  "I  am,  or  was,  merchant  of 
police  here  "  first  consul,  an  office  for  nobles  only),  "  as  my 
Lord  Bishop  is  merchant  of  holy-water : "  let  his  Reverence 
take  that.  At  all  events,  the  ready-spoken  proved  first-rate 
traders  ;  acquired  their  bastide,  or  mansion  (white,  on  one  of 
those  green  hills  behind  Marseilles),  endless  warehouses  :  ac- 
quired the  lands  first  of  this,  then  of  that ;  the  lands,  Village, 
and  Castle  of  Mirabeau  on  the  banks  of  the  Durance  ;  respectable 
Castle  of  Mirabeau,  c  standing  on  its  scarped  rock,  in  the  gorge 
of  two  valleys,  swept  by  the  north  wind,' — very  brown  and 
melancholy-looking  now !  What  is  extremely  advantageous, 
the  old  Marquis  says,  they  had  a  singular  talent  for  choosing 
wives ;  and  always  chose  discreet,  valiant  women  ;  whereby 
the  lineage  was  the  better  kept  up.  One  grandmother,  whom 
the  Marquis  himself  might  all  but  remember,  was  wont  to  say, 
alluding  to  the  degeneracy  of  the  age  :  "  You  are  men  ?  You 
are  but  manikins  (sias  houmachomes,  in  Provencal)  ;  we  women, 
in  our  time,  carried  pistols  in  our  girdles,  and  could  use  them 
too."  Or  fancy  the  Dame  Mirabeau  sailing  stately  towards 
the  church-font ;  another  dame  striking-in  to  take  precedence 
of  her  ;  the  Dame  Mirabeau  despatching  this  latter  with  a  box 
on  the  ear  (soufflei),  and  these  words  :  "  Here,  as  in  the  army, 
the  baggage  goes  last !  "  Thus  did  the  Riquettis  grow,  and 
were  strong  ;  and  did  exploits  in  their  narrow  arena,  waiting 
for  a  wider  one. 

When  it  came  to  courtiership,  and  your  field  of  preferment 
was  the  Versailles  (Eil-de-Bceuf,  and  a  Grand  Monarque  walk- 
ing encircled  with  scarlet  women  and  adulators  there,  the 
course  of  the  Mirabeaus  grew  still  more  complicated.  They 
had  the  career  of  arms  open,  better  or  worse  :  but  that  was 
not  the  only  one,  not  the  main  one  ;  gold  apples  seemed  to 
rain  on  other  careers, — on  that  career  lead  bullets  mostly. 
Observe  how  a  Bruno,  Count  de  Mirabeau,  comports  him- 
self : — like  a  rhinoceros  yoked  in  carriage-gear ;  his  fierce 
forest-horn  set  to  dangle  a  plume  of  fleurs-de-lis.  £  One  day 
'  he  had  chased  a  blue  man  (it  is  a  sort  of  troublesome  usher 
'  at  Versailles)  into  the  very  cabinet  of  the  King,  who  there* 
7 


MIRABEAU. 


fi  upon  ordered  the  Duke  de  la  Feuillade  to  put  Mirabeau 
i  under  arrest.  Mirabeau  refused  to  obey  ;  he  "  would  not 
'  be  punished  for  chastising  the  insolence  of  a  valet ;  for  the 
'  rest,  would  go  to  the  diner  du  roi  (king's  dinner),  who  might 
£  then  give  his  order  himself."  He  came  accordingly  ;  the 
i  King  asked  the  Duke  why  he  had  not  executed  the  order  ? 
'  The  Duke  was  obliged  to  say  how  it  stood  ;  the  King,  with 
'a  goodness  equal  to  his  greatness,  then  said,  "It  is  not  of 
*  to-day  that  Ave  know  him  to  be  mad  ;  one  must  not  ruin 
4  him,"  1 — and  the  rhinoceros  Bruno  journeyed  on.  But  again, 
on  the  day  when  they  were  '  inaugurating  the  pedestrian 
'  statue  of  King  Louis  in  the  Place  des  Victoires  (a  master- 
piece of  adulation),'  the  same  Mirabeau,  'passing  along  the 
c  Pont  Neuf  with  the  Guards,  raised  his  spontoon  to  his 
'  shoulder  before  Henry  the  Fourth's  statue,  and  saluting 
'  first,  bawled  out,  "  Friends,  wTe  will  salute  this  one  ;  he  de- 
4  serves  it  as  well  as  some,  Mes  ami*,  saluonx  cehd-ei :  il  en 
'  vaut  bien  tin  autre."' — Thus  do  they,  the  wild  Riquettis,  in  a 
state  of  courtiership.  Not  otherwise,  according  to  the  prov- 
erb, do  wild  bulls,  unexpectedly  finding  themselves  in  crock- 
ed-shops. O  Riquetti  kindred,  into  what  centuries  and 
circumstances  art  thou  come  down  ! 

Directly  prior  to  our  old  Marquis  himself,  the  Riquetti 
kindred  had  as  near  as  possible  gone  out,  Jean  Antoine, 
afterwards  named  Silverstock  (Col  d' Argent),  had,  in  the  ear- 
lier part  of  his  life,  been  what  he  used  to  call  tilled, — of 
seven-and-twenty  wounds  in  one  hour.  Haughtier,  juster, 
more  choleric  man  need  not  be  sought  for  in  biography.  He 
flung  gabellemen  and  excisemen  into  the  river  Durance 
(though  otherwise  a  most  dignified,  methodic  man),  when 
their  claims  were  not  clear ;  he  ejected,  by  the  like  brief  pro- 
cess, all  manner  of  attorneys  from  his  villages  and  properties ; 
he  planted  vineyards,  solaced  peasants.  He  rode  through 
France  repeatedly  (as  the  old  men  still  remembered),  with 
the  gallantest  train  of  outriders,  on  return  from  the  wars  ;  in- 
timidating innkeepers  and  all  the  world,  into  mute  prostra- 
tion, into  unerring  promptitude,  by  the  mere  light  of  his 
eye ; — withal  drinking  rather  deep,  yet  never  seen  affect*  » 


MIR  ABE  AIT. 


99 


by  it.  He  was  a  tall,  straight  man  (of  six  feet  and  upwards) 
in  mind  as  in  body  :  Vendome's  'right  arm'  in  all  campaigns. 
Vendome  once  presented  him  to  Louis  the  Great,  with  com- 
pliments to  that  effect,  which  the  splenetic  Biquetti  quite 
spoiled.  Erecting  his  killed  head,  which  needed  the  silvei 
stock  now  to  keep  it  straight,  he  said  :  "Yes,  Sire;  and  had 
I  left  my  fighting,  and  come  up  to  court,  and  bribed  some 
catin  (scarlet  woman !),  I  might  have  had  my  promotion  and 
fewer  wounds  to-day !  "  The  Grand  King,  every  inch  a  king, 
instantaneously  spoke  of  something  else. 

But  the  reader  should  have  first  seen  that  same  killing ; 
how  twenty-seven  of  those  unprofitable  wounds  were  come 
by  in  one  fell  lot.  The  Battle  of  Gamno  has  grown  very  ob- 
scure to  most  of  us  ;  and  indeed  Prince  Eugene  and  Vendome 
themselves  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer,  as  men  and  battles 
must :  but,  curiously  enough,  this  small  fraction  of  it  has 
brightened  up  again  to  a  point  of  history,  for  the  time  being : 

*  My  grandfather  had  foreseen  that  manoeuvre '  (it  is  Mirabeau,  the 
Count,  not  the  Marquis,  that  reports :  Prince  Eugene  has  carried  a  cer- 
tain bridge  which  the  grandfather  had  charge  of)  ;  4  but  he  did  not,  as 
has  since  happened  at  Malplaquet  and  Fontenoy,  commit  the  blunder 
of  attacking  right  in  the  teeth  a  column  of  such  weight  as  that.  He 
lets  them  advance,  hurried-on  by  their  own  impetuosity  and  by  the 
pressure  of  their  rearward  ;  and  now  seeing  them  pretty  well  engaged, 
he  raised  his  troop  vit  was  lying  flat  on  the  ground),  and  rushing  on, 
himself  at  the  head  of  them,  takes  the  enemy  in  flank,  cuts  them  in 
two,  dashes  them  back,  chases  them  over  the  bridge  again,  which  they 
had  to  repass  in  great  disorder  and  haste.  Things  brought  to  their  old 
state,  he  resumes  his  post  on  the  crown  of  the  bridge,  shelters  his  troop 
as  before,  which,  having  performed  all  this  service  under  the  sure 
deadly  fire  of  the  enemy's  double  lines  from  over  the  stream,  had  suf- 
fered a  good  deal.  M.  de  VendCme  coming  up,  full  gallop,  to  the  attack, 
finds  it  already  finished,  the  whole  line  flat  on  the  earth,  only  the.  tall 
figure  of  the  colonel  standing  erect !  He  orders  him  to  do  like  the  rest, 
not  to  have  himself  shot  till  the  time  came.  His  faithful  servant  cries 
to  him,  "  Never  would  I  expose  myself  without  need;  I  am  bound  to 
be  here,  but  you,  Monseigneur,  are  bound  not.  I  answer  to  you  for 
the  post;  but  take  yourself  out  of  it,  or  I  give  it  up."  The  Prince 
(VendCme)  then  orders  him,  in  the  king's  name,  to  come  down  "Co 
to,  the  king  and  you:  I  am  at  my  work  ;  go  you  and  do  yours."  Tha 
good  generous  Prince  yielded.    The  post  was  entirely  untenable. 


100 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


•  A  little  afterwards  my  grandfather  had  his  right  arm  shattered. 
He  formed  a  sort  of  sling  for  it  of  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  kep£ 
his  place  ;  for  there  was  a  new  attack  getting  ready.  The  right  mo- 
ment once  come,  he  seizes  an  axe  in  his  left  hand,  repeats  the  same 
manoeuvre  as  before  ;  again  repulses  the  enemy,  again  drives  him  back 
over  the  bridge.  But  it  was  here  that  ill-fortune  lay  in  wait  for  him. 
At  the  very  moment  while  he  was  recalling  and  ranging  his  troop,  a 
bullet  struck  him  in  the  throat  ;  cut  asunder  the  tendons,  the  jugular 
vein.  He  sank  on  the  bridge  ;  the  troop  broke  and  fled.  M.  de  Mon- 
tolieu,  Knight  of  Malta,  his  relative,  was  wounded  beside  him:  he  tore 
up  his  own  shirt,  and  those  of  several  others,  to  stanch  the  blood,  but 
fainted  himself  by  his  own  hurt.  An  old  sergeant  named  Laprairie, 
begged  the  aide-major  of  the  regiment,  one  Guadin,  a  Gascon,  to  help 
and  carry  him  off  the  bridge.  Guadin  refused,  saying  he  was  dead. 
The  good  Laprairie  could  only  cast  a  camp-kettle  over  his  colonel's  head 
and  then  run.  The  enemy  trampled  over  him  in  torrents  to  profit  by 
the  disorder  ;  the  cavalry  at  full  speed,  close  in  the  rear  of  the  foot. 
M.  de  Vendome,  seeing  his  line  broken,  the  enemy  forming  on  this 
side  the  stream,  and  consequently  the  bridge  lost,  exclaimed,  "Ah! 
Mirabeau  is  dead  then  ;  "  a  eulogy  forever  dear  and  memorable  to 
us. ' 

How  nearly,  at  this  moment,  it  was  all  over  with  the  Mira- 
beaus  ;  how,  but  for  the  cast  of  an  insignificant  camp-kettle, 
there  had  not  only  been  no  Article  Mirabeau  in  this  Review, 
but  no  French  Revolution,  or  a  very  different  one  ;  and  all 
Europe  had  found  itself  in  far  other  latitudes  at  this  hour, 
any  one  who  has  a  turn  for  such  things  may  easily  reflect. 
Nay,  without  great  difficulty,  he  may  reflect  farther,  that  not 
only  the  French  Revolution  and  this  Article,  but  all  revolu- 
tions, articles  and  achievements  whatsoever,  the  greatest  and 
the  smallest,  which  this  wrorld  ever  beheld,  have  not  once,  but 
often,  in  their  course  of  genesis,  depended  on  the  variest  tri- 
fles, castings  of  camp-kettles,  turnings  of  straws  ;  except  only 
that  we  do  not  see  that  course  of  theirs.  So  inscrutable  is 
genetic .  history  ;  impracticable  the  theory  of  causation,  and 
transcends  all  calculus  of  man's  devising  !  Thou  thyself,  O 
Reader  (who  art  an  achievement  of  importance),  over  what 
hairsbreadth  bridges  of  Accident,  through  yawning  perils,  and 
the  man-devouring  gulf  of  Centuries,  hast  thou  got  safe  hither, 
—from  Adam  all  the  way  ! 


MIR  ABE AU. 


101 


Be  this  as  it  can,  Col  d' Argent  came  alive  again,  by  i  mira- 
cle of  surgery  ; '  and,  holding  his  head  up  by  means  of  a  silver 
stock,  walked  this  earth  many  long  days,  with  respectability, 
with  liery  intrepidity  and  spleen  ;  did  many  notable  things  •. 
among  others,  produced,  in  dignified  wedlock,  Mirabeau  the 
Friend  of  Men  ;  who  again  produced  Mirabeau  the  Swallower 
of  Formulas ;  from  which  latter,  and  the  wondrous  blazing 
funeral  pyre  he  made  for  himself,  there  finally  goes  forth 
a  light,  whereby  those  old  Riquetti  destinies,  and  many  a 
strange  old  hidden  thing,  become  noticeable. 

But  perhaps  in  the  whole  Riquetti  kindred  there  is  not  a 
stranger  figure  than  this  very  Friend  of  Men  ;  at  whom,  in 
the  order  of  time,  we  have  now  arrived.  That  Riquetti  who 
chained  the  mountains  together,  and  hung  up  the  star  with 
five  rays  to  sway  and  bob  there,  was  but  a  type  of  him. 
Strong,  tough  as  the  oak-root,  and  as  gnarled  and  unwedgea- 
ble  ;  no  fibre  of  him  running  straight  with  the  other  :  a  block 
for  Destiny  to  beat  on,  for  the  world  to  gaze  at,  with  ineffectual 
wonder  !  Really  a  most  notable,  questionable,  hateable,  lov- 
able old  Marquis.  How  little,  amid  such  jingling  triviality 
of  Literature,  Philosophie  and  the  pretentious  cackle  of  innu- 
merable Baron  Grimms,  with  their  correspondence  and  self- 
proclamation,  one  could  fancy  that  France  held  in  it  such  a 
Nature-product  as  the  Friend  of  Men  !  Why,  there  is  sub- 
stance enough  in  this  one  Marquis  to  fit-out  whole  armies 
of  PhUosophes,  were  it  properly  attenuated.  So  many  poor 
Thomases  perorate  and  have  eloges,  poor  Morellets  speculate, 
Marmontels  moralise  in  rose-pink  manner,  Diderots  become 
possessed  of  encyclopedical  heads,  and  lean  Carons  de  Beau- 
marchais  fly  abroad  on  the  wings  of  Figaros  ;  and  this  brave 
old  Marquis  has  been  hid  under  a  bushel !  He  was  a  "Writer, 
too  ;  and  had  talents  for  it  (certain  of  the  talents),  such  as 
few  Frenchmen  have  had  since  the  days  of  Montaigne.  It 
skilled  not :  he,  being  unwedgeable,  has  remained  in  antiqua- 
rian cabinets  ;  the  others,  splitting-up  so  readily,  are  the  ware 
you  find  on  all  market-stalls,  much  prized  (say  as  brimstone 
Lucifers,  '  Ught-bringeYS '  so-called)  by  the  generality.  Such 
is  the  world's  way.    And  yet  complain  not;  this  rich,  un« 


102 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


wedgeable  old  Marquis,  have  we  not  him  too  at  last,  and  can 
keep  him  all  the  longer  than  the  Thomases  ? 

The  great  Mirabeau  used  to  say  always  that  his  father  had 
the  greater  gifts  of  the  two  ;  which  surely  is  saying  some- 
thing. Not  that  you  can  subscribe  to  it  in  the  full  sense,  but 
that  in  a  very  wide  sense  you  can.  So  far  as  mere  speculative 
head  goes,  Mirabeau  is  probably  right.  Looking  at  the  old 
Marquis  as  a  speculative  thinker  and  utter er  of  his  thought, 
and  with  what  rich  colouring  of  originality  he  gives  it  forth, 
you  pronounce  him  to  be  superior,  or  even  say  supreme  in  his 
time  ;  for  the  genius  of  him  almost  rises  to  the  poetic.  Do 
our  readers  know  the  German  Jean  Paul,  and  his  style  of 
thought  ?  Singular  to  say,  the  old  Marquis  has  a  quality  in 
him  resembling  afar  off  that  of  Paul ;  and  actually  works  it 
out  in  his  French  manner,  far  as  the  French  manner  can. 
Nevertheless  intellect  is  not  of  the  speculative  head  only  ;  the 
great  end  of  intellect  surely  is,  that  it  make  one  see  some- 
thing :  for  which  latter  result  the  whole  man  must  cooperate. 
In  the  old  Marquis  there  dwells  withal  a  crabbedness,  stiff 
cross-grained  humour,  a  latent  fury  and  fuliginosity,  very  per- 
verting ;  which  stiff  crabbedness,  with  its  pride,  obstinacy, 
affectation,  what  else  is  it  at  bottom  but  want  of  strength? 
The  real  quantity  of  our  insight, — how  justly  and  thoroughly 
we  shall  comprehend  the  nature  of  a  thing,  especially  of  a 
human  thing, — depends  on  our  patience,  our  fairness,  loving- 
ness,  what  strength  soever  we  have  :  intellect  comes  from  the 
whole  man,  as  it  is  the  light  that  enlightens  the  whole  man. 
In  this  true  sense,  the  younger  Mirabeau,  with  that  great 
flashing  eyesight  of  his,  that  broad,  fearless  freedom  of  nature 
he  had,  was  very  clearly  the  superior  man. 

At  bottom,  perhaps,  the  main  definition  you  could  give  of 
old  Marquis  Mirabeau  is,  that  he  was  of  the  Pedant  species. 
Stiff  as  brass,  in  all  senses;  un  sympathising,  uncomplying;  of 
an  endless,  unfathomable  pride,  which  cloaks  but  does  nowise 
extinguish  an  endless  vanity  and  need  of  shining  :  stately, 
euphuistic  mannerism  enveloping  the  thought,  the  morality, 
the  whole  being  of  the  man.  A  solemn,  high  stalking  man  ; 
with  such  a  fund  of  indignation  in  him,  or  of  latent  indigna 


MI  BABE  Air. 


103 


tion  ;  of  eontumacity,  irrefragability  ; — who  (after  long  experi- 
ment) accordingly  looks  forth  on  mankind  and  this  world  of 
theirs  with  some  dull-snuffling  word  of  forgiveness,  of  con- 
temptuous acquittal  ;  or  oftenest  with  clenched  lips  (nostrils 
slightly  dilated),  in  expressive  silence.  Here  is  pedantry  ; 
but  then  pedantry  under  the  most  interesting  new  circum- 
stances ;  and  withal  carried  to  such  a  pitch  as  becomes  sub- 
lime, one  might  almost  say  transcendental.  Consider  indeed 
whether  Marquis  Mirabeau  could  be  a  pedant,  as  your  com- 
mon Scaligers  and  Scioppiuses  are  !  His  arena  is  not  a  closet 
with  Greek  manuscripts,  but  the  wide  world  and  Friendship 
to  Humanity.  Does  not  the  blood  of  all  the  Mirabeaus  cir- 
culate in  his  honourable  veins  ?  He  too  would  do  somewhat 
to  raise  higher  that  high  house  ;  and  yet,  alas,  it  is  plain  to 
him  that  the  house  is  sinking ;  that  much  is  sinking.  The 
Mirabeaus,  and  above  all  others  this  Mirabeau,  are  fallen  on 
evil  times.  It  has  not  escaped  the  old  Marquis  how  Nobility 
is  now  decayed,  nearly  ruinous;  based  no  longer  on  heroic 
nobleness  of  conduct  and  effort,  but  on  sycophancy,  formality, 
adroitness  ;  on  Parchments,  Tailor's  trimmings,  Prunello  and 
Coach-leather :  on  which  latter  basis,  unless  his  whole  insight 
into  Heaven's  ways  with  Earth  have  misled  him,  no  institution 
in  this  god-governed  world  can  pretend  to  continue.  Alas, 
and  the  priest  has  now  no  tongue  but  for  plate-licking  ;  and 
the  tax-gatherer  squeezes  ;  and  the  strumpetocracy  sits  at  its 
ease,  in  high-cushioned  lordliness,  under  baldachins  and  cloth- 
of  -gold  :  till  now  at  last,  what  with  one  fiction,  what  with  an- 
other (and  veridical  Nature  dishonouring  all  manner  of  fictions, 
and  refusing  to  pay  realities  for  them),  it  has  come  so  far  that 
the  Twenty-five  millions,  long  scarce  of  knowledge,  of  virtue, 
happiness,  cash,  are  now  fallen  scarce  of  food  to  eat  ;  and  do 
not,  with  that  natural  ferocity  of  theirs  which  Nature  has  still 
left  them,  feel  the  disposition  to  die  starved  ;  and  all  things 
are  nodding  towards  chaos,  and  no  man  layeth  it  to  heart ! 
One  man  exists  who  might  perhaps  stay  or  avert  the  catas- 
trophe, were  he  called  to  the  helm  :  the  Marquis  Mirabeau. 
His  high,  ancient  blood,  his  heroic  love  of  truth,  his  strength 
of  heart,  his  loyalty  and  profound  insight  (for  you  cannot 


104 


MIR  ABE  AW. 


hear  him  speak  without  detecting  the  man  of  genius),  this, 
with  the  appalling  predicament  things  have  come  to,  might 
give  him  claims.  From  time  to  time,  at  long  intervals,  such 
a  thought  does  flit,  portentous,  through  the  brain  of  the  Mar- 
quis. But  ah  !  in  these  scandalous  days,  how  shall  the  proud- 
est of  the  Mirabeaus  fall  prostrate  before  a  Pompadour  ?  Can 
the  Friend  of  Men  hoist,  with  good  hope,  as  his  battle-stand- 
ard, the  furbelow  of  an  unmentionable  woman  ?  No  ;  not 
hanging  by  the  apron-strings  of  such  a  one  will  this  Mirabeau 
rise  to  the  premiership  ;  but  summoned  by  France  in  her  day 
of  need,  in  her  day  of  vision,  or  else  not  at  all.  France  does 
not  summon  ;  the  else  goes  its  road. 

Marquis  Mirabeau  tried  Literature,  too,  as  we  said  ;  and 
with  no  inconsiderable  talent;  nay,  with  first-rate  talents  in 
some  sort :  but  neither  did  this  prosper.  His  Ecce  signam,  in 
such  era  of  downfall  and  all-darkening  ruin,  was  Political 
Economy  ;  and  a  certain  man,  whom  he  called  '  the  Master,' 
— that  is,  Dr.  Quesnay.  Round  this  Master  (whom  the  Mar- 
quis succeeded  as  Master  himself)  he  and  some  other  idolaters 
did  idolatrously  gather :  to  publish  books  and  tracts,  periodi- 
cal literature,  proclamation  by  word  and  deed, — if  so  were, 
the  world's  dull  ear  might  be  opened  to  salvation.  The 
world's  dull  ear  continued  shut.  In  vain  preached  this  apostle 
and  that  other,  simultaneously  or  in  Melibcean  sequence,  in 
literature,  periodical  and  stationary  ;  in  vain  preached  Mar- 
quis Mirabeau  in  his  Ami  des  Homines,  number  after  number, 
through  long  volumes, — though  really  in  a  most  eloquent 
manner.  Marquis  Mirabeau  had  the  undisputablest  ideas  ; 
but  then  his  style !  In  very  truth,  it  is  the  strangest  of  styles, 
though  one  of  the  richest :  a  style  full  of  originality,  pictu- 
resqueness,  sunny  vigour  ;  but  all  cased  and  slated  over,  three- 
fold, in  metaphor  and  trope ;  distracted  into  tortuosities, 
dislocations  ;  starting-out  into  crotchets,  cramp  turns,  quaint- 
nesses,  and  hidden  satire  ;  which  the  French  head  had  no  ear 
for.  Strong  meat,  too  tough  for  babes  !  The  Friend  of  Men 
found  warm  partisans,  widely  scattered  over  this  Earth  ;  and 
had  censer-fumes  transmitted  him  from  marquises,  nay  from 
kings  and  principalities,  over  seas  and  alpine  chains  of  moun* 


MIR  ABE  A  IT. 


105 


tains ;  whereby  the  pride  and  latent  indignation  of  the  man 
were  only  fostered  :  but  at  home,  with  the  million  all  jigging 
each  after  its  suitable  scrannel-pipe,  he  could  see  himself 
make  no  way, — if  it  were  not  way  towards  being  a  monstrosity, 
and  thing  men  wanted  6  to  see  : '  not  the  right  thing  !  Neither 
through  the  press,  then,  is  there  progress  towards  the  premier- 
ship ?  The  staggering  state  of  French  statesmen  must  even 
stagger  whither  it  is  bound.  A  light  Public  fxoths  itself  into 
tempest  about  Palissot  and  his  comedy  of  Les  Philosophes, — - 
about  Gluck-Piccini  Music  ;  neglecting  the  call  of  Kuin  ;  and 
hard  must  come  to  hard.  Thou,  O  Friend  of  Men,  clench  thy 
lips  together,  and  wait ;  silent  as  the  old  rocks.  Our  Friend 
of  Men  did  so,  or  better ;  not  wanting  to  himself,  the  lion- 
hearted  old  Marquis !  For  his  latent  indignation  has  a  certain 
devoutness  in  it ;  is  a  kind  of  holy  indignation.  The  Marquis, 
though  he  knows  the  Encyclopedic,  has  not  forgotten  the 
higher  Sacred  Books,  or  that  there  is  a  God  in  this  world, — 
very  different  from  the  French  £tre  Supreme.  He  even  pro- 
fesses, or  tries  to  profess,  a  kind  of  diluted  Catholicism,  in  his 
own  way,  and  thus  turn  an  eye  towards  heaven  :  very  singular 
in  his  attitude  here  too.  Thus  it  would  appear  this  world  is 
a  mad  imbroglio,  which  no  Friend  of  Men  can  set  right :  it 
shall  go  wrong  then,  in  God's  name  ;  and  the  staggering  state 
of  all  things  stagger  whither  it  can.  To  deep,  fearful  depths, 
— not  to  bottomless  ones  ! 

But  in  the  Family  Circle  ?  There  surely  a  man,  and  friend 
of  men,  is  supreme  ;  and,  ruling  with  wise  autocracy,  may 
make  something  of  it.  Alas,  in  the  family  circle  it  went  not 
better,  but  worse !  The  Mirabeaus  had  once  a  talent  for 
choosing  wives  :  had  it  deserted  them  in  this  instance,  then, 
when  most  needed  ?  We  say  not  so  :  wTe  say  only  that  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise  had  human  freewill  in  her  too  ;  that  all  the 
young  Mirabeaus  were  .likely  to  have  human  freewill,  in  great 
plenty  :  that  within  doors  as  without,  the  Devil  is  busy.  Most 
unsuccessful  is  the  Marquis  as  ruler  of  men  :  his  family  king- 
dom, for  the  most  part,  little  otherwise  than  in  a  state  of 
mutiny.  A  sceptre  as  of  Rhadamanthus  will  sway  and  drill 
that  household  into  perfection  of  Harrison  Clockwork  ;  and 


106 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


cannot  do  it.  The  royal  ukase  goes  forth,  in  its  calm,  irre- 
fragable justice  ;  meets  hesitation,  disobedience  open  or  con- 
cealed. Reprimand  is  followed  by  remonstrance  ;  harsh  coming 
thunder  mutters,  growl  answering  growl.  With  unaffectedly 
astonished  eye  the  Marquis  appeals  to  Destiny  and  Heaven  ; 
explodes,  since  he  needs  must  then,  in  red  lightning  of  paternal 
authority.  How  it  went,  or  who  by  forethought  might  be  to 
blame,  one  knows  not ;  for  the  Fits  Adoptif,  hemmed-in  by 
still  extant  relations,  is  extremely  reticent  on  these  points  :  a 
certain  Dame  de  Pailly,  '  from  Switzerland,  very  beautiful  and 
very  artful/  glides  half -seen  through  the  Mirabeau  household 
(the  Marquis's  Orthodoxy,  as  wTe  said,  being  but  of  the  diluted 
kind) :  there  are  eavesdroppers,  confidential  servants ;  there 
are  Pride,  Anger,  Uncharitableness,  Sublime  Pedantry,  and 
the  Devil  always  busy.  Such  a  figure  as  Pailly,  of  herself, 
bodes  good  to  no  one.  Enough,  there  are  Lawsuits,  Lettres 
de  Cachet  ;  on  all  hands,  peine  forte  et  dure.  Lawsuits,  long 
drawn  out,  before  gaping  Parlements,  between  man  and  wife  : 
to  the  scandal  of  an  unrighteous  world  ;  how  much  more  of 
a  righteous  Marquis,  minded  once  to  be  an  example  to  it ! 
Lettres  de  Cachet,  to  the  number,  as  some  count,  of  fifty-four, 
first  and  last,  for  the  use  of  a  single  Marquis  :  at  times  the 
whole  Mirabeau  fireside  is  seen  empty,  except  Pailly  and 
Marquis  ;  each  individual  sitting  in  his  separate  Strong-house, 
there  to  bethink  himself.  Stiff  are  your  tempers,  ye  young 
Mirabeaus  ;  not  stiffer  than  mine  the  old  one's  !  What  pangs 
it  has  cost  the  fond  paternal  heart  to  go  through  all  this 
Brutus  duty,  the  Marquis  knows,  and  Heaven.  In  a  less  de- 
gree, what  pangs  it  may  cost  the  filial  heart  to  go  under  (or 
undergo)  the  same !  The  former  set  of  pangs  he,  aided  by 
Heaven,  crushes-down  into  his  soul  suppressively,  as  beseems 
a  man  and  Mirabeau  :  the  latter  set, — are  they  not  self-sought 
pangs  ;  medicinal ;  which  will  cease  of  their  own  accord,  when 
the  unparalleled  filial  impiety  pleases  to  cease  ?  For  the  rest, 
looking  at  such  a  world  and  such  a  family,  at  these  prison- 
houses,  mountains  of  divorce-papers,  and  the  staggering  state 
of  French  statesmen,  a  Friend  of  Men  may  pretty  naturally 
ask  himself,  Am  not  I  a  strong  old  Marquis  then,  whom  all  this 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


107 


has  not  driven  into  Bedlam, — not  into  hypochondria,  dyspepsia 
even  ?  The  Heavens  are  bounteous,  and  make  the  back  equal 
to  the  burden. 

Out  of  all  which  circumstances,  and  of  such  struggle  against 
them,  there  has  come  forth  this  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  shaped 
(it  was  the  shape  lie  could  arrive  at)  into  one  of  the  most  sin- 
gular Sublime  Pedants  that  ever  stepped  the  soil  of  France. 
Solemn  moral  rigour,  as  of  some  antique  Presbyterian  Ruling 
Elder  :  heavy  breath,  dull  heat,  choler  and  pride  as  of  an  old 
'Bozzy  of  Auchinleck  ;'  then  a  high  flown  euphuistic  courtesy, 
khe  airiest  mincing  ways,  suitable  to  your  French  Seigneur  ! 
How  the  two  divine  missions,  for  both  seem  to  him  divine,  of 
Riquetti  and  Man  of  Genius  or  World-schoolmaster,  blend 
themselves  ;  and  philosophism,  chivalrous  euphuism,  presby- 
terian  ruling-elderism,  all  in  such  strength,  have  met,  to  give 
the  world  assurance  orf  a  man  !  There  never  entered  the 
brain  of  Hogarth,  or  of  rare  old  Ben,  such  a  piece  of  Humour 
(high  meeting  with  low,  and  laughter  with  tears)  as,  in  this 
brave  old  Riquetti,  Nature  has  presented  us  ready-made. 
For  withal  there  is  such  genius  in  him  ;  rich  depth  of  charac- 
ter ;  indestructible  cheerfulness  and  health  breaking  out,  in 
spite  of  these  divorce-papers,  ever  and  anon, — like  strong  sun- 
light in  thundery  weather.  "We  have  heard  of  the  '  strife  of 
Fate  with  Free-will '  producing  Greek  Tragedies,  but  never 
heard  it  till  now  produce  such  astonishing  comico-tragical 
French  Farces.  Blessed  old  Marquis,  —  or  else  accursed  ! 
He  is  there,  with  his  broad  bull-brow  ;  with  the  huge  cheek- 
bones ;  those  deep  eyes,  glazed  as  in  weariness  ;  the  lower 
visage  puckered  into  a  simpering  graciosity,  which  would 
pass  itself  off  for  a  kind  of  smile.  What  to  do  with  him  ? 
Welcome,  thou  tough  old  Marquis,  with  thy  better  and  thy 
Worse  !  There  is  stuff  in  thee  (very  different  from  moonshine 
and  formula)  ;  and  stuff  is  stuff,  were  it  never  so  crabbed. 

Besides  the  old  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  there  is  a  Brother 
the  Bailli  de  Mirabeau :  a  man  who,  serving  as  Knight  of 
Malta,  governing  in  Guadaloupe,  fighting  and  doing  hard  sea- 
duty,  has  sown  his  wild  oats  long  since  ;  and  settled  down 
here,  in  the  old  '  Castle  of  Mirabeau  on  its  sheer  rock '  (for 


108 


M IRA  BEAU. 


the  Marquis  usually  lives  at  Bignon,  another  estate  within 
reach  of  Paris),  into  one  of  the  worthiest  quiet  uncles  and 
house-friends.  It  is  very  beautiful,  this  mild  strength,  mile? 
clearness  and  justice  of  the  brave  Bailli,  in  contrast  with  his 
brother's  nodosity  ;  whom  he  comforts,  defends,  admonishes, 
even  rebukes  ;  and  on  the  whole  reverences,  both  as  head 
Kiquetti  and  as  World-shoolm  aster,  beyond  all  living  men. 
The  frank  true  love  of  these  two  brothers  is  the  fairest  feat- 
ure in  Mirabeaudom  ;  indeed  the  only  feature  which  is  al- 
ways fair.  Letters  pass  continually  :  in  letter  and  extract 
we  here,  from  time  to  time,  witness  (in  these  Eight  chaotic 
Volumes)  the  various  personages  speak  their  dialogue,  unfold 
their  farce-tragedy.  The  Fits  Adoptif  admits  mankind  into 
this  strange  household  ;  though  stingily,  uncomfortably,  and 
all  in  darkness,  save  for  his  own  capricious  dark-lantern. 
So  en  or  half -seen,  it  is  a  stage  ;  as  the  whole  world  is.  What 
with  personages,  what  with  destinies,  no  stranger  house-drama 
was  enacting  on  the  Earth  at  that  time. 

Under  such  auspices,  which  were  not  yet  ripened  into 
events  and  fatalities,  but  yet  were  inevitably  ripening  to- 
wards such,  did  Gabriel  Honore,  at  the  Mansion  of  Bignon, 
between  Sens  and  Nemours,  on  the  9th  day  of  March,  1749, 
first  see  the  light.  He  was  the  fifth  child  ;  the  second  male 
child  ;  yet  born  heir,  the  first  having  died  in  the  cradle.  A 
magnificent  '  enormous  '  fellow,  as  the  gossips  had  to  admit, 
almost  with  terror  :  the  head  especially  great ;  c  two  grinders  ; 
in  it,  already  shot! — Eough-hewn  truly,  yet  with  bulk,  with 
limbs,  vigour  bidding  fair  to  do  honour  to  the  line.  The 
paternal  Marquis,  to  whom  they  said,  "  N'ayez  pas  peur. 
Don't  be  frightened,"  gazed  joyful,  we  can  fancy,  and  not 
fearful,  on  this  product  of  his  ;  tha  stiff  pedant  features  relax- 
ing into  a  veritable  smile.  Smile,  O  paternal  Marquis :  the 
future  indeed,  '  veils  sorrow  and  joy/  one  knows  not  in  what 
proportion  ;  but  here  is  a  new  Kiquetti,  whom  the  gods  send  ; 
with  the  rudiments  in  him,  thou  wouldst  guess,  of  a  very 
Hercules,  fit  for  Twelve  Labours,  which  surely  are  themselves 
the  best  joys.    Look  at  the  oaf,  how  he  sprawls.    No  stranger 


MIR  ABE AU. 


109 


Riquetti  ever  sprawled  under  our  Sun  :  it  is  as  if,  in  this  thy 
man-child,  Destiny  had  swept  together  all  the  wildnesses  and 
strengths  of  the  Kequetti  lineage,  and  flung  him  forth  as  her 
finale  in  that  kind.  Not  without  a  vocation  !  He  is  the  last 
of  the  Riquettis  ;  and  shall  do  work  long  memorable  among 
mortals. 

Truly,  looking  now  into  the  matter,  we  might  say,  in  spite 
of  the  gossips,  that  on  this  whole  Planet,  in  those  years,  there 
was  hardly  born  such  a  man-child  as  this  same,  in  the  '  Man- 
sion-house of  Bignon,  not  far  from  Paris/  whom  they  named 
Gabriel  Honore.  Nowhere,  we  say,  came  there  a  stouter  or 
braver  into  this  Earth  ;  whether  they  come  marching  by  the 
legion  and  the  myriad,  out  of  Eternity  and  Night ! — Except, 
indeed,  what  is  notable  enough,  one  other  that  arrived  some 
few  months  later,  at  the  town  of  Frankfort  on  the  Main, 
and  got  christened  Johann  Wolfgang  Goethe.  Then  again,  in 
some  ten  years  more  there  came  another,  still  liker  Gabriel 
Honore  in  his  brawny  ways.  It  was  into  a  mean  hut  that 
this  one  came,  an  infirm  hut  (which  the  wind  blew  down  at 
the  time),  in  the  shire  of  Ayr,  in  Scotland  :  him  they  named 
Robert  Burns.  These,  in  that  epoch,  were  the  Well-born  of 
the  World  ;  by  whom  the  world's  history  was  to  be  carried 
on.  Ah,  could  the  well-born  of  the  world  be  always  rightly 
bred,  rightly  entreated  there,  what  a  world  were  it !  But  it 
is  not  so  ;  it  is  the  reverse  of  so.  And  then  few,  like  that 
Frankfort  one,  can  peaceably  vanquish  the  world,  with  its 
black  imbroglios  ;  and  shine  above  it,  in  serene  help  to  it, 
like  a  sun  !  The  most  can  but  Titanimlly  vanquish  it,  or  be 
vanquished  by  it  :  hence,  instead  of  light  (stillest  and  strong- 
est of  things),  we  have  but  lightning  ;  red  fire,  and  often- 
times conflagrations,  which  are  very  wof  ul. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  Marquis  Mirabeau  determined  to  give 
his  son,  and  heir  of  all  the  Riquettis,  such  an  education  as  no 
Riquetti  had  yet  been  privileged  with.  Being  a  world-school- 
master (and  indeed  a  Martinus  Scrihlerus,  as  we  here  find, 
more  ways  than  one),  this  was  not  strange  in  him  ;  but  the 
results  were  very  lamentable.  Considering  the  matter  now, 
at  this  impartial  distance,  you  are  lost  in  wonder  at  the  good 


110 


MIR  ABE  A  ££ 


Marquis  ;  know  not  whether  to  laugh  at  him,  or  weep  ovei 
him  ;  and  on  the  whole  are  bound  to  do  both.  A  more  suf- 
ficient product  of  Nature  than  this  '  enormous  Gabriel/  as 
we  said,  need  not  have  been  wished  for  :  '  beating  his  nurse/ 
but  then  loving  her,  and  loving  the  whole  world  ;  of  large 
desire,  truly,  but  desire  towards  all  things,  the  highest  and 
the  lowest :  in  other  words,  a  large  mass  of  life  in  him,  a 
large  man  waiting  there  !  Does  he  not  rummage  (the  rough 
cub,  now  tenfold  rougher  by  the  effect  of  small-pox)  in  all 
places,  seeking  something  to  know  ;  dive  down  to  the  most 
unheard-of  recesses  for  papers  to  read  ?  Does  he  not,  spon- 
taneously, give  his  hat  to  a  peasant-boy  whose  head-gear  was 
defective  ?  He  writes  the  most  sagacious  things,  in  his  fifth 
year,  extempore,  at  table ;  setting  forth  what  '  Monsieur  Moi, 
Mr.  Me,'  is  bound  to  do.  A  rough  strong  genuine  soul,  of 
the  frankest  open  temper  ;  full  of  loving  fire  and  strength  ; 
looking  out  so  brisk  with  his  clear  hazel  eyes,  with  his  brisk 
sturdy  bulk,  what  might  not  fair  breeding  have  done  for  him! 
On  so  many  occasions,  one  feels  as  if  he  needed  nothing  in 
the  world  but  to  be  well  let  alone. 

But  no  ;  the  scientific  paternal  hand  must  interfere,  at 
every  turn,  to  assist  Nature  :  the  young  lion's-whelp  has  to 
grow  up  all  bestrapped,  bemuzzled  in  the  most  extraordinary 
manner  :  shall  wax  and  unfold  himself  by  theory  of  educa- 
tion, by  square  and  rule, — going  punctual,  all  the  way,  like 
Harrison  Clockwork,  according  to  the  theoretic  program  ;  or 
else —  !  O  Marquis,  World- schoolmaster,  what  theory  of  edu- 
cation is  this  ?  No  lion's-whelp  or  young  Mirabeau  will  go 
like  clockwork,  but  far  otherwise.  'He  that  spareth  the 
rod  hateth  the  child  ; '  that  on  its  side  is  true  :  and  yet  Nature, 
too,  is  strong  :  '  Nature  will  come  running  back,  though  thou 
expel  her  with  a  fork  ! '  In  one  point  of  view  there  is  nothing 
more  Hogarthian  comic  that  this  long  Peter  Peebles'  ganging 
plea  of  '  Marquis  Mirabeau  versus  Nature  and  others  : '  yet  in 
a  deeper  point  of  view  it  is  but  too  serious.  Candid  history 
will  say,  that  whatsoever  of  worst  it  was  in  the  power  of  art 
to  do  against  this  young  Gabriel  Honore,  was  done.  Not 
with  unkind  intentions ;  nay,  with  intentions  which,  at  least 


MIR  ABE  A  tr. 


Ill 


began  in  kindness.  How  much  better  was  Burns's  education 
(though  this  too  went  on  under  the  grimmest  pressures),  on 
the  wild  hill-side,  by  the  brave  peasant's  hearth,  with  no 
theory  of  education  at  all,  but  poverty,  toil,  tempest  and  the 
handles  of  the  plough  ! 

At  bottom,  the  Marquis's  wish  and  purpose  was  not  com- 
plex, but  simple.  That  Gabriel  Honor e  de  Eiquetti  shall 
become  the  very  same  man  that  Victor  de  Eiquetti  is  ;  perieci 
as  he  is  perfect :  this  will  satisfy  the  fond  father's  heart,  and 
nothing  short  of  this.  Better  exemplar,  truly,  were  hard  to 
find  ;  and  yet,  O  Victor  de  Eiquetti,  poor  Gabriel,  on  his  side, 
wishes  to  be  Gabriel  and  not  Victor  !  Stiffer  loving  Pedant 
never  had  a  more  elastic  loving  Pupil.  Offences  (of  mere 
elasticity,  mere  natural  springing-up,  for  most  part)  accumu- 
late by  addition  :  Madame  Pailly  and  the  confidential  servants, 
on  this  as  on  all  matters,  are  busy.  The  household  itself  is 
darkening,  the  mistress  of  it  gone  ;  the  Lawsuits,  and  by  and 
by  Divorce-Lawsuits  have  begun.  Worse  will  grow  worse, 
and  ever  worse,  till  Ehadamanthus-Scriblerus  Marquis  de 
Mirabeau,  swaying  vainly  the  sceptre  of  order,  see  himself 
environed  by  a  waste  chaos  as  of  Bedlam.  Stiff  is  he  ;  elastic, 
and  yet  still  loving,  reverent,  is  his  son  and  pupil.  Thus 
cruelty,  and  yearnings  that  must  be  suppressed  ;  indignant 
revolt,  and  hot  tears  of  penitence,  alternate,  in  the  strangest 
way,  between  the  two  ;  and  for  long  years  our  young  Alcides 
has,  by  Destiiry,  his  own  Demon  and  Juno  de  Pailly,  Labours 
enough  imposed  on  him. 

But,  to  judge  what  a  task  was  set  this  poor  paternal  Mar- 
quis, let  us  listen  to  the  following  successive  utterances  from 
him  ;  which  he  emits,  in  letter  after  letter,  mostly  into  the 
ear  of  his  brother  the  good  Bailli.  Cluck,  cluck, — is  it  not  as 
the  sound  of  an  agitated  parent-fowl,  now  in  terror  now  in 
anger,  at  the  brood  it  has  brought  out  ? 

'  This  creature  promises  to  be  a  very  pretty  subject.'  '  Talent  in 
plenty,  and  cleverness,  but  more  faults  still  inherent  in  the  substance 
of  him.'  '  Only  just  come  into  life,  and  the  extravasation  {extraxase- 
ment)  of  the  thing  already  visible  !  A  spirit  cross-grained,  fantastic, 
iracund,  incompatible,  tending  towards  evil  before  knowing  it,  or  being 


112 


MIR  ABE  A  Xk 


capable  of  it.'  '  A  high  lieart  under  the  jacket  of  a  boy  ;  it  has  a  strange 
instinct  of  pride  this  creature  ;  noble  withal ;  the  embryo  of  a  shaggy- 
headed  bully  and  killcow,  that  would  swallow  all  the  world,  and  is  not 
twelve  years  old  yet.'  'A  type,  profoundly  inconceivable,  of  baseness, 
sheer  dull  grossness  {'platitude  absolue),  and  the  quality  of  your  dirty, 
rough-crusted  caterpillar,  that  will  never  uncrust  itself  or  fly.'  'An 
intelligence,  a  memory,  a  capacity,  that  strike  you,  that  astonish,  that 
frighten  you.'  'A  nothing  bedizened  with  crotchets.  May  fling  dust  in 
the  eyes  of  silly  women,  but  will  never  be  the  fourth  part  of  a  man,  if 
by  good  luck  he  be  anything.'  One  whom  you  may  call  ill-born,  this 
elder  lad  of  mine  ;  who  bodes,  at  least  hitherto,  as  if  he  could  become 
nothing  but  a  madman :  almost  invincibly  maniac,  with  all  the  vile 
qualities  of  the  maternal  stock  over  and  above.  As  he  has  a  great  many 
masters,  and  all,  from  the  confessor  to  the  comrade,  are  so  many 
reporters  for  me,  I  see  the  nature  of  the  beast,  and  don't  think  we 
shall  ever  do  any  good  with  him.' 

In  a  word,  offences  (of  elasticity  or  expansivity)  have  ac- 
cumulated to  such  height,  in  the  lad's  fifteenth  year,  that 
there  is  a  determination  taken,  on  the  part  of  Rhadamanthus- 
Scriblerus,  to  pack  him  out  of  doors,  one  way  or  the  other. 
After  various  plannings,  the  plan  of  one  Abbe  Choquenard's 
Boarding-school  is  fallen  upon  :  the  rebellious  Expansive  shall 
to  Paris  ;  there,  under  ferula  and  short-commons,  contract 
himself  and  consider.  Farther,  as  the  name  Mirabeau  is 
honourable  and  right  honourable,  he  shall  not  have  the  honour 
of  it ;  never  again,  but  be  called  Pierre  Buffilre,  till  his  ways 
decidedly  alter.  This  Pierre  Buffiere  was  the  name  of  an 
estate  of  his  mother's  in  the  Limousin  :  sad  fuel  of  those 
smoking  lawsuits  which  at  length  blazed  out  as  divorce  law- 
suits. Wearing  this  melancholy  nickname  of  Peter  Buffiere, 
as  a  perpetual  badge,  had  poor  Gabriel  Honore  to  go  about 
for  a  number  of  years  ;  like  a  misbehaved  soldier  with  his  eye- 
brows shaven  off ;  alas,  only  a  fifteen-years  recruit  yet,  too 
young  for  that ! 

Nevertheless;  named  or  shorn  of  his  name,  Peter  or  Gabriel, 
the  youth  himself  was  still  there.  At  Choquenard's  Boarding- 
school,  as  always  afterwards  in  life,  he  carries  with  him,  he 
unfolds  and  employs,  the  qualities  which  Nature  gave,  which  no 
shearing  or  shaving  of  art  and  mistreatment  could  take  away. 


MIRABEAU. 


113 


The  Fih  Adoptif  gives  a  grand  list  of  studies  followed,  ac- 
quisitions made  :  ancient  languages  ('  and  we  have  a  thousand 
proofs  of  his  indefatigable  tenacity  in  this  respect ')  :  modern 
languages,  English,  Italian,  German,  Spanish  ;  then  'passionate 
study  of  mathematics  ; '  design,  pictorial  and  geometrical  ; 
music,  so  as  to  read  it  at  sight,  nay  to  compose  in  it ;  singing,  to  a 
high  degree  ;  '  equitation,  fencing,  dancing,  swimming  and  ten- 
nis : ■  if  only  the  half  of  which  were  true,  can  we  say  that  Pierre 
Buffiere  spent  his  time  ill  ?  What  is  more  precisely  certain, 
the  disgraced  Buffiere  worked  his  way  very  soon  into  the  good 
affections  of  all  and  sundry,  in  this  House  of  Discipline,  who 
came  in  contact  with  him  ;  schoolfellows,  teachers,  the  Abbe 
Choquenard  himself.  For,  said  the  paternal  Marquis,  he  has 
the  tongue  of  the  Old  Serpent !  In  fact,  it  is  very  notable 
how  poor  Buffiere,  Comte  de  Mirabeau,  revolutionary  King 
Biquetti,  or  whatever  else  they  might  call  him,  let  him  come, 
under  what  discommendation  he  might,  into  any  circle  of 
men,  was  sure  to  make  them  his  erelong.  To  the  last,  no 
man  could  look  into  him  with  his  own  eyes,  and  continue  to 
hate  him.  He  could  talk  men  over,  then?  Yes,  O  Beader  : 
and  he  could  act  men  over  :  for,  at  bottom,  that  was  it.  The 
large  open  soul  of  the  man,  purposing  deliberately  no  paltry, 
unkindly  or  dishonest  thing  towards  any  creature,  was  felt  to 
be  withal  a  brothers  soul.  Defaced  by  black  drossy  obscurations 
very  many  ;  but  yet  shining  out,  lustrous,  warm  ;  in  its  troub- 
lous effulgence,  great !  That  a  man  be  loved  the  better  by 
men  the  nearer  they  come  to  him  :  is  not  this  the  fact  of  all 
facts  ?  To  know  what  extent  of  prudential  diplomacy  (good, 
indifferent  and  even  bad)  a  man  has,  ask  public  opinion, 
journalistic  rumour,  or  at  most  the  persons  he  dines  with  : 
to  know  what  of  real  worth  is  in  him,  ask  infinitely  deeper 
and  farther ;  ask,  first  of  all,  those  who  have  triecl  by  experi- 
ment ;  who,  were  they  the  foolishest  people,  can  answer  per- 
tinently here  if  anywhere.  '  Those  at  a  distance  esteem  of 
me  a  little  worse  than  I ;  those  near  at  hand  a  little  better 
than  I : '  so  said  the  good  Sir  Thomas  Browne  ;  so  will  all 
men  say  who  have  much  to  say  on  that. 

The  Choquenard  Military  Boarding-school  having,  if  not 


114 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


fulfilled  its  function,  yet  ceased  to  be  a  house  of  penance,  and 
failed  of  its  function,  Marquis  Mirabeau  determined  to  try 
the  Army.  Nay,  it  would  seem,  the  wicked  mother  h&s  been 
privily  sending  him  money  ;  which  he,  the  traitor,  has  ac- 
cepted !  To  the  army  therefore.  And  so  Pierre  Buffiere  has 
a  basnet  on  his  big  head  ;  the  shaggy  pock-pitted  visage  looks 
martially  from  under  horsehair  and  clear  metal ;  he  dresses 
rank,  with  tight  bridle-hand  and  drawn  falchion,  in  the  town 
of  Saintes,  as  a  bold  volunteer  dragoon.  His  age  was  but 
eighteen  as  yet,  and  some  months. 

The  people  of  Saintes  grew  to  like  him  amazingly ;  would 
even  chave  lent  him  money  to  any  extent.'  His  Colonel,  one 
De  Lambert,  proved  to  be  a  martinet,  of  sharp  sour  temper : 
the  shaggy  visage  of  Buffiere,  radiant  through  its  seaminess 
with  several  things,  had  not  altogether  the  happiness  to  con- 
tent him.  Furthermore  there  was  an  Archer  (Bailiff)  at 
Saintes,  who  had  a  daughter  :  she,  foolish  minx,  liked  the 
Buffiere  visage  better  even  than  the  Colonel's !  For  one  can 
fancy  what  a  pleader  Buffiere  was,  in  this  great  cause  ;  wife 
the  tongue  of  the  Old  Serpent.  It  wras  his  first  amourette  ; 
plainly  triumphant :  the  beginning  of  a  quite  unheard-of 
career  in  that  kind.  The  aggrieved  Colonel  emitted  '  satires' 
through  the  mess-rooms  ;  this  bold  volunteer  dragoon  wras 
not  the  man  to  give  him  worse  than  he  brought :  matters  fell 
into  a  very  unsatisfactory  state  between  them.  To  crown  the 
whole,  Buffiere  went  one  evening  (contrary  to  wont,  now  and 
always)  to  the  gaming-table,  and  lost  four  louis.  Insubordi- 
nation, gambling,  Archer's  daughter !  Rhadamanthus  thun- 
ders from  Bignon  :  Buffiere  doffs  his  basnet,  flies  covertly 
to  Paris.  Negotiation  there  now  was  ;  confidential  spy  to 
Saintes  ;  correspondence,  fulmination  ;  Dupont  de  Nemours 
as  daysman  between  a  Colonel  and  a  Marquis,  both  in  high 
wrath, — Buffiere  to  pay  the  piper !  Confidential  spy  takes 
evidence  ;  the  whole  atrocity  comes  to  light :  what  wilt  thou 
do,  O  Marquis,  with  this  devil's  child  of  thine  ?  Send  him  to 
Surinam  ;  let  the  Tropical  heats  and  rains  tame  the  hot  liver 
of  him ! — so  whispered  paternal  Brutus'-justice  and  Dame 
Paiily  ;  but  milder  thoughts  prevailed.    Lettre  de  Cachet  and 


MIR  ABE AU. 


115 


the  Isle  of  Khe  shall  be  tried  first.  Thither  fares  poor  Buf- 
fiere  ;  not  with  Archer's  daughters,  but  with  Archers  ;  amid 
the  dull  rustle  and  autumnal  brown  of  the  falling  leaves  of 
1768,  his  nineteenth  autumn.  It  is  his  second  Hercules'  La- 
bour; the  Choquenard  Boarding-house  was  the  first.  Be- 
moaned by  the  loud  Atlantic  he  shall  sit  there,  in  winter  sea- 
son, under  ward  of  a  Bailli  d'Aulan,  governor  of  the  place, 
and  said  to  be  a  very  Cerberus. 

At  Khe  the  old  game  is  played  :  in  few  weeks,  the  Cer- 
berus Bailli  is  Buffiere's  ;  baying,  out  of  all  his  throats,  in 
Buffiere's  behalf !  What  '  sorcery '  is  this  that  the  rebellious 
prodigy  has  in  him,  O  Marquis  ?  Hypocrisy,  cozenage,  which 
no  governor  of  strong  places  can  resist?  Nothing  short  of 
the  hot  swTamps  of  Surinam  will  hold  him  quiet,  then  ?  Hap- 
pily there  is  fighting  in  Corsica  ;  Paoli  fighting  on  his  last  legs 
there  ;  and  Baron  de  Vaux  wants  fresh  troops  against  him. 
Bufnere,  though  he  likes  not  the  cause,  will  go  thither  gladly ; 
and  fight  his  very  best :  how  happy  if,  by  any  fighting,  he  can 
conquer  back  his  baptismal  name,  and  some  gleam  of  paternal 
tolerance  !  After  much  soliciting,  his  prayer  is  acceded  to : 
Bufnere,  with  the  rank  now  of  c  Sub-lieutenant  of  Foot,  in  the 
Legion  of  Lorraine,'  gets  across  the  country  to  Toulon,  in  the 
month  of  April ;  and  enters  '  on  the  plain  which  furrows  itself 
*  without  plough  '  (euphuistic  for  ocean)  :  '  God  grant  he  may 
f  not  have  to  row  there  one  day,' — in  red  cap,  as  convict  .gal- 
ley-slave !  Such  is  the  paternal  benediction  and  prayer  ; 
which  was  realised.  Nay,  Buffi  ere,  it  would  seem,  before 
"  quitting  Kochelle,  indeed  '  hardly  yet  two  hours  out  of  the 
fortress  of  Khe,'  had  fallen  into  a  new  atrocity, — his  first  duel ; 
a  certain  quondam  messmate  (discharged  for  swindling)  hav- 
ing claimed  acquaintance  with  him  on  the  streets ;  whicfi 
claim  Buffivire  saw  good  to  refuse  ;  and  even  to  resist,  when 
demanded  at  the  sword's  point !  The  6  Corsican  Buccaneer, 
flibustier  Corse'  that  he  is  ! 

The  Corsican  Buccaneer  did,  as  usual,  a  giant's  or  two 
giants'  work  in  Corsica  ;  fighting,  writing,  loving ;  '  eight 
hours  a-day  of  study  ; '  and  gained  golden  opinions  from  all 
manner  of  men  and  women.    It  was  his  own  notion  that  Na- 


116 


MIRABEAU. 


ture  had  meant  him  for  a  soldier ;  he  felt  so  equable  and  at 
home  in  that  business, — the  wreck  of  discordant  death-tumult, 
and  roar  of  cannon,  serving  as  a  fine  regulatory  marching- 
music  for  him.  Doubtless  Nature  meant  him  for  a  Man  of 
Action  ;  as  she  means  all  great  souls  that  have  a  strong  body 
to  dwell  in  :  but  Nature  will  adjust  herself  to  much.  In  the 
course  of  twelve  months,  in  May,  1770,  Buffiere  gets  back  to 
Toulon  ;  with  much  manuscript  in  his  pocket  ;  his  head  full 
of  military  and  all  other  lore,  '  like  a  library  turned  topsy- 
turvy ; '  his  character  much  risen,  as  we  said,  with  every  one. 
The  brave  Bailli  Mirabeau,  though  almost  against  principle, 
cannot  refuse  to  see  a  chief  nephew,  as  he  passes  so  near  the 
old  Castle  on  the  Durance  :  the  good  uncle  is  charmed  with 
him  ;  finds,  c  under  features  terribly  seamed  and  altered  from 
what  they  were,'  bodily  and  mentally  all  that  is  royal  and 
strong,  nay  '  an  expression  of  something  refined,  something 
gracious  ; '  declares  him,  after  several  days  of  incessant  talk, 
to  be  the  best  fellow  on  earth  if  well  dealt  with,  6  who  will 
shape  into  statesman,  generalissimo,  pope,  what  thou  pleasest 
to  desire ! '  Or,  shall  we  give  poor  Bufnere's  testimonial  in 
mess-room  dialect  ;  in  its  native  twanging  vociferosity,  and 
garnished  with  old  oaths, — which,  alas,  have  become  for  us 
almost  old  prayers  now, — the  vociferous  Moustachio-ngures 
whom  they  twanged  through,  having  all  vanished  so  long 
since  :  "  Morbleu,  Monsieur  V  Abbe  ;  a' est  an  gar  con  diablement 
vif :  mats  c'est  un  bon  gar(jon,  qui  a  de  V esprit  comme  trois  cent 
mille  diables  ;  et  parbleu,  un  Jiomme  Ires  brave." 

Moved  by  all  manner  of  testimonials  and  entreaties  from 
uncle  and  family,  the  rigid  Marquis  consents,  not  without 
difficulty,  to  see  this  anomalous  Peter  Buffiere  of  his  ;  and 
then,  after  solemn  deliberation,  even  to  un-Peter  him,  and 
give  him  back  his  name.  It  was  in  September  that  they 
met  ;  at  Aiguesperse,  in  the  Limousin  near  the  lands  of 
Pierre  Buffiere.  Soft  ruth  comes  stealing  through  the  Rhad- 
aman thine  heart ;  tremblings  of  faint  hope  even,  which,  how- 
ever, must  veil  itself  in  austerity  and  rigidity.  The  Marquis 
writes  :  '  I  perorate  him  very  much  ; '  observe  '  my  man, 
'  how  he  droops  his  nose,  and  looks  fixedly,  a  sign  that  he  is 


MIR  ABE AU. 


117 


'  reflecting  ;  or  whirls  away  his  head,  hiding  a  tear  :  serious, 
c  now  mild,  now  severe,  we  give  it  him  alternately  ;  it  is  thus 
'I  manage  the  mouth  of  this  fiery  animal.'  Had  he  but  read 
the  Ephemerides,  the  Economiques,  the  Precis  des  Elemens 
('  the  most  laboured  book  I  have  done,  though  I  wrote  it  in 
such  health 5 )  ;  had  he  but  got  grounded  in  my  Political 
Economy !  Which,  however,  he  does  not  take  to  with  any 
heart.  On  the  contrary,  he  unhappily  finds  it  hollow,  prag- 
matical, a  barren  jingle  of  formulas  ;  pedantic  even  ;  unnu- 
tritive  as  the  east  wind.  Blasphemous  words  ;  which  (or 
the  like  of  them)  any  eavesdropper  has  but  to  report  to  '  the 
Master ! ' — And  yet,  after  all,  is  it  not  a  brave  Gabriel  this 
rough-built  young  Hercules  ;  and  has  finished  handsomely 
his  Second  Labour?  The  head  of  the  fellow  is  '  a  wind-mill 
and  fire-mill  of  ideas.'  The  War-ofiice  makes  him  captain, 
and  he  is  passionate  for  following  soldiership  :  but  then,  un- 
luckily, your  Alexander  needs  such  tools ;  a  whole  world  for 
workshop!  c Where  are  the  armies  and  herring-shoals  of 
men  to  come  from?  Does  he  think  I  have  money,'  snuffles 
the  old  Marquis,  £  to  get  him  up  battles  like  Harlequin  and 
Scaramouch  ? '  The  fool !  he  shall  settle  down  into  rurality  ; 
first,  however,  though  it  is  a  risk,  see  a  little  of  Paris. 

At  Paris,  through  winter,  the  brave  Gabriel  carries  all  be- 
fore him  ;•  shines  in  saloons,  in  the  Versailles  ffiil-de-Boeuf ; 
dines  with  your  Duke  of  Orleans  (young  Chartres,  not  yet 
become  Egalite,  hob-nobbing  with  him);  dines  with  your 
Guemenes,  Brogiies,  and  mere  Grandeurs ;  and  is  invited  to 
hunt.  Even  the  old  women  are  charmed  with  him,  and  rus- 
tle in  their  satins  :  such  a  light  has  not  risen  in  the  (Eil-cie- 
Bceuf  for  some  while.  Grant,  O  Marquis,  that  there  are 
worse  sad-dogs  than  this.  The  Marquis  grants  partially ; 
and  yet,  and  yet !  Fewr  things  are  notabler  than  these  suc- 
cessive surveys  by  the  old  Marquis,  critically  scanning  his 
yount  count : 

1 1  am  on  my  guard  ;  remembering  how  vivacity  of  head  may  de- 
ceive you  as  to  a  character  of  morass  (de  tourbe) :  but,  all  considered, 
one  must  give  him  store  of  exercise  ;  what  the  devil  else  to  do  with 
such  exuberance,  intellectual  and  sanguineous  ?    I  know  no  woman 


118 


MIR  ABE  A  IT. 


but  the  Empress  of  Russia,  with,  whom  this  man  were  good  to  marry 
yet. '  '  Hard  to  find  a  dog  (drole)  that  had  more  talent  and  action  in 
the  head  of  him  than  this  ;  he  would  reduce  the  devil  to  terms.' 
1  Thy  nephew  Whirlwind  (VOuragan)  assists  me;  yesterday  the  valet 
Luce,  who  is  a  sort  of  privileged  simpleton,  said  pleasantly,  "Con- 
fess, M.  le  Comte,  a  man's  body  is  very  unhappy  to  carry  a  head  like 
that. "  '  '  The  terrible  gift  of  familiarity  (as  Pope  Gregory  called  it) ! 
He  turns  the  great  people  here  round  his  finger.'  —  Or  again,  though 
all  this  is  some  years  afterwards  :  '  They  have  never  done  telling  me 
that  he  is  easy  to  set  a-rearing  ;  that  you  cannot  speak  to  him  reproach- 
fully but  his  eyes,  his  lips,  his  colour  testify  that  all  is  giving  way  ;  on 
the  other  hand,  the  smallest  word  of  tenderness  will  make  him  burst 
into  tears,  and  he  would  fling  himself  into  the  fire  for  you.'  'I  pass 
my  life  in  cramming  him  (a  le  bourrer)  with  principles,  with  all  that  I 
know  ;  for  this  man,  ever  the  same  as  to  his  fundamental  properties, 
has  done  nothing  by  these  long  and  solid  studies  but  augment  the  rub- 
bish-heap in  his  head,  which  is  a  library  turned  topsy-turvy  ;  and  then 
his  talent  for  dazzling  by  superficials,  for  he  has  swallowed  all  formulas, 
and  cannot  substantiate  anything.'  'A  wicker-basket,  that  lets  all 
through ;  disorder  born ;  credulous  as  a  nurse ;  indiscreet ;  a  liar' 
(kind  of  white  liar),  '  by  exaggeration,  affirmation,  effrontery,  without 
need,  and  merely  to  tell  histories  ;  a  confidence  that  dazzles  you  on 
everything  ;  cleverness  and  talent  without  limit.  For  the  rest,  the 
vices  have  infinitely  less  root  in  him  than  the  virtues  ;  all  is  facility, 
impetuosity^  ineffectuality  (not  for  want  of  fire,  but  of  plan)  ;  wrong- 
spun,  ravelled  (defaiifile)  in  character  :  a  mind  that  meditates  in  the 
vague,  and  builds  of  soap-bells.'  '  Spite  of  the  bitter  ugliness,  the  in- 
tercadent  step,  the  trenchant  breathless  blown-up  precipitation,  and 
the  look,  or,  to  say  better,  the  atrocious  eyebrow  of  this  man  when  he 
listens  and  reflects,  something  told  me  that  it  was  all  but  a  scarecrow  of 
old  cloth,  this  ferocious  outward  garniture  of  his  ;  that,  at  bottom,  here 
was  perhaps  the  man  in  all  France  least  capable  of  deliberate  wicked- 
ness.' Tie  and  jay  by  instinct.'  Wholly  reflex  and  reverberance 
{tout  de  reflet  et  de  reterbere)  ;  drawn  to  the  right  by  his  heart,  to  the 
left  by  his  head,  which  he  carries  four  paces  from  him.'  1  May  become 
the  Coryphaeus  of  the  Time.'  '  A  blinkard  (myope)  precipitancy,  borri 
with  him,  which  makes  him  take  the  quagmire  for  firm  earth — ' 

■ — Cluck,  cluck, — in  the  name  of  all  the  gods,  what  prodigy 
is  this  I  have  hatched  ?  Web-footed,  broad-billed  ;  which 
will  run  and  drown  itself,  if  Mercy  and  the  parent-fowl  pre- 
vent not  ! 

How  inexpressibly  true,  meanwhile,  is  this  that  the  old 
Marquis  says:   'He  has  swallowed  all  formulas  (il  a  hume 


MIR  ABE AU. 


119 


ioutes  les  formules),'  and  made  away  with  them  !  Formulas, 
indeed,  if  we  think  of  it,  Formulas  and  Gabriel  Hon  ore  had 
been,  and  were  to  be,  at  death-feud  from  first  to  last.  What 
formula  of  this  formalised  (established)  world  had  been  a  kind 
one  to  Gabriel?  His  soul  could  find  no  shelter  in  them,  they 
were  unbelievable  ;  his  body  no  solacement,  they  were  tyran- 
nical, unfair.  If  there  were  not  pabulum  and  substance  be- 
yond formulas,  and  in  spite  of  them,  then  woe  to  him  !  To  this 
man  formulas  would  yield  no  existence  or  habitation,  if  it  were 
not  in  the  Isle  of  Rhe  and  such  places ;  but  threatened  to 
choke  the  life  out  of  him  :  either  formulas  or  he  must  go  to 
the  wall ;  and  so,  after  a  tough  fight,  they,  as  it  proves,  will 
go.  So  cunningly  thrift}'  is  Destiny  ;  and  is  quietly  shaping 
her  tools  for  the  work  they  are  to  do,  whilst  she  seems  but 
spoiling  and  breaking  them !  For,  consider,  O  Marquis, 
whether  France  herself  will  not,  by  and  by,  have  to  swallow  a 
formula  or  two  ?  This  sight  thou  lookest  on  from  the  baths 
of  Mount  d'Or,  does  it  not  bode  something  of  that  kind  ?  A 
summer  day  in  the  year  1777  : 

'  O  Madame !  tlie  narrations  I  would  give  you,  if  I  had  not  a  score  of 
letters  to  answer,  on  dull  sad  business  !  I  would  paint  to  you  the  votive 
feast  of  this  town,  which  took  place  on  the  14th.  The  savages  descend- 
ing in  torrents  from  the  Mountains, — our  people  ordered  not  to  stir  out. 
The  curate  with  surplice  and  stole;  public  justice  in  periwig;  mare- 
chausse^  sabre  in  hand,  guarding  the  place,  before  the  bagpipes  were 
permitted  to  begin.  The  dance  interrupted,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after, 
by  battle  ;  the  cries  and  fierce  hissings  of  the  children,  of  the  infirm,  and 
other  onlookers,  ogling  it,  tarring  it  on,  as  the  mob  does  when  dogs 
fight.  Frightful  men,  or  rather  wild  creatures  of  the  forest,  in  coarse 
woollen  jupes,  and  broad  girths  of  leather  studded  with  copper  nails;  of 
gigantic  stature,  heightened  by  the  high  sabots  ;  rising  still  higher  on 
tip-toe,  to  look  at  the  battle;  beating  time  to  it ;  rubbing  their  sides 
with  their  elbows  :  their  face  haggard,  covered  with  their  long  greasy 
hair ;  top  of  the  visage  waxing  pale,  bottom  of  it  twisting  itself  into  the 
rudiments  of  a  cruel  laugh,  a  ferocious  impatience. — And  these  people 
pay  the  taille!  And  you  want  to  take  from  them  their  salt  too!  And 
you  know  not  what  you  strip  bare,  or,  as  you  call  it,  govern  ;  what,  with 
the  heedless,  cowardly  squirt  of  your  pen,  you  will  think  you  can  con- 
tinue stripping  with  impunity  forever,  till  the  Catastrophe  come  !  Such 
sights  recall  deep  thoughts  to  one.    "Poor  Jean- Jacques  !  "    I  said  to 


120 


MIRABEAU. 


myself:  11  they  that  sent  thee,  and  thy  System,  to  copy  music  among 
such  a  People  as  these  same,  have  confuted  thy  System  but  ill!  "  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  these  thoughts  were  consolatory  for  a  man  who  has 
all  his  life  preached  the  necessity  of  solacing  the  poor,  of  universal  in- 
struction ;  who  has  tried  to  show  what  such  instruction  and  such  solace- 
ment  ought  to  be,  if  it  would  form  a  harrier  (the  sole  possible  barrier) 
between  oppression  and  revolt  ;  the  sole  but  the  infallible  treaty  of  peace 
between  the  high  and  the  low  !  Ah,  Madame  !  this  government  by 
blindman's-bufP,  stumbling  along  too  far,  will  end  by  the  general 

OVERTURN.' 

Prophetic  Marquis ! — Might  other  nations  listen  to  thee 
better  than  France  did  :  for  it  concerns  them  all!  But  now 
is  it  not  curious  to  think  how  the  whole  world  might  have 
gone  so  differently,  but  for  this  very  prophet  ?  Had  the 
young  Mirabeau  had  a  father  as  other  men  have  ;  or  even  no 
father  at  all !  Consider  him,  in  that  case,  rising  by  natural 
gradation,  by  the  rank,  the  opportunity,  the  irrepressible 
buoyant  faculties  he  had,  step  after  step,  to  official  place, — 
to  the  chief  official  place  ;  as  in  a  time  when  T argots,  Keek- 
ers, and  men  of  ability,  were  grown  indispensable,  he  was 
sure  to  have  done  By  natural  witchery  he  bewitches  Marie 
Antoinette  ;  her  most  of  all,  with  her  quick  susceptive  in- 
stincts, her  quick  sense  for  whatever  was  great  and  noble,  her 
quick  hatred  for  whatever  was  but  pedantic,  Neckerish,  Fay- 
ettish,  and  pretending  to  be  great.  King  Louis  is  a  nullity  ; 
happily  then  reduced  to  be  one  :  there  would  then  have,  been 
at  the  summit  of  France  the  one  French  Man  who  could  have 
grappled  with  that  great  Question  ;  who,  yielding  and  re- 
fusing, managing,  guiding,  and,  in  short,  seeing  and  daring 
what  was  to  be  done,  had  perhaps  saved  France  her  Bevolu- 
tion  ;  remaking  her  by  peaceabler  methods  !  But  to  the  Su- 
preme Powers  it  seemed  not  so.  Once  after  a  thousand 
years  all  nations  were  to  see  the  great  Conflagration  and  Self- 
combustion  of  a  Nation, — and  learn  from  it  if  they  could. 
And  now,  for  a  Swallower  of  Formulas,  was  there  a  better 
schoolmaster  in  the  world  than  this  very  Friend  of  Men  ;  a 
better  education  conceivable  than  this  which  Alcides-Mirabeau 
had  ?  Trust  in  Heaven,  good  reader,  for  the  fate  of  nations, 
for  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


121 


Gabriel  Honore  has  acquitted  himself  so  well  in  Paris, 
turning  the  great  people  round  his  thumb,  with  that  'fond 
gaillard,  basis  of  gaiety/  with  that  ' terrible  don  de  la  fami- 
liarite  ;  '  with  those  ways  he  has.  Neither,  in  the  quite  op- 
posite Man-of-business  department,  when  summer  comes  and 
rurality  with  it,  is  he  found  wanting.  In  the  summer  of  the 
year,  the  old  Friend  of  Men  despatches  him  to  the  Limousin, 
to  his  own  estate  of  Pierre  Buffiere,  or  his  wife's  own  estate 
(under  the  law-balance  about  this  time),  to  see  whether  any- 
thing can  be  done  for  men  there.  Much  is  to  be  done  there  ; 
the  Peasants,  short  of  all  things,  even  of  victuals,  here  as 
everywhere,  wear  '  a  settled  souffre-douleur  (pain-stricken) 
'look,  as  if  they  reckoned  that  the  pillage  of  men  was  an  in- 
e  evitable  ordinance  of  Heaven,  to  be  put  up  with  like  the 
'  wind  and  the  hail.'  Herein  the  solitude  of  the  Limousin, 
Gabriel  is  still  Gabriel :  he  rides,  he  writes  and  runs  ;  eats 
out  of  the  poor  people's  pots  ;  speaks  to  them,  redresses 
them  ;  institutes  a  court  of  Villager  ( prudJiommes,  good  men 
and  true,' — once  more  carries  all  before  him.  Confess,  O 
Bhadamanthine  Marquis,  we  say  again,  that  there  are  worse 
sad-dogs  than  this  !  '  He  is,'  confesses  the  Marquis,  £  the 
Demon  of  the  Impossible,  le  demon  de  la  chose  impossible.' 1 
Most  true  this  also  :  impossible  is  a  word  not  in  his  dictionary. 
Thus  the  same  Gabriel  Honore,  long  afterwards  (as  Dumont 
will  witness),  orders  his  secretary  to  do  some  miracle  or 
other,  miraculous  within  the  time.  The  secretary  answers, 
"Monsieur,  it  is  impossible."  "Impossible?"  answers  Ga- 
briel :  "  Ne  me  dites  jamais  ce  Mte  de  mot,  Never  name  to  me 
that  blockhead  of  a  word  !  "  Beally,  one  would  say,  a  good 
fellow,  were  he  well  dealt  with, — though  still  broad-billed, 
and  with  latent  tendencies  to  take  the  water.  The  folio  wing- 
otherwise  insignificant  Letter,  addressed  to  the  Bailli,  seems 
to  us  worth  copying.  Is  not  his  young  Lordship,  if  still  in 
the  dandy-state  and  style-of-moclS:ery,  very  handsome  in  it ; 
standing  there  in  the  snow  ?  It  is  of  date  December  1771f 
and  far  onwards  on  the  road  towards  Mirabeau  Castle  : 


1  See  La  Fontaine  :  Conies,  1.  iv.  c.  15. 


122 


Mill  ABE  A  V. 


4  Fracti  hello  satisque  r&pulsi  ductores  Danau/U  :  here,  dear  uncle,  is 
a  beginning  in  good  Latin,  which  means  that  I  am  broken  with  fatigue, 
not  having,  this  whole  week,  slept  more  than  sentinels  do ;  and  sound- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  with  the  wheels  of  my  vehicle,  most  of  the  ruts 
and  jolts  that  lie  between  Paris  and  Marseilles.  Ruts  deep  and  numer- 
ous. Moreover,  my  axle  broke  between  Mucreau,  Romano,  Chambertin 
and  Beaune  ;  the  centre  of  four  wine  districts  :  what  a  geographical 
point,  if  I  had  had  the  wit  to  be  a  drunkard  !  The  mischief  happened 
towards  five  in  the  evening  ;  my  lackey  had  gone  on  before.  There 
fell  nothing  at  the  time  but  melted  snow  ;  happily  it  afterwards  took 
some  consistency.  The  neighbourhood  of  Beaune  made  me  hope  to  find 
genius  in  the  natives  of  the  country:  I  had  need  of  good  counsel  ;  the 
devil  counselled  me  at  first  to  swear,  but  that  whim  passed,  and  I  fell 
by  preference  into  the  temptation  of  laitghing  ;  for  a  holy  priest  came 
jogging  up,  wrapt  to  the  chin  ;  against  the  blessed  visage  of  whom  the 
sleet  was  beating,  which  made  him  cut  so  singular  a  face,  that  I  think 
this  was  the  thing  drove  me  from  swearing.  The  lioly  man  inquired,  see- 
ing my  chaise  on  its  beam-ends,  and  one  of  the  wheels  wanting,  whether 
anything  had  befallen  ?  I  answered,  "there  was  nothing  falling  here 
but  snow."  "Ah,"  said  he,  ingeniously,  "it  is  your  chaise,  then, 
that  is  broken."  I  admired  the  sagacity  of  the  man,  and  begged  him 
to  double  his  pace,  with  his  horse's  permission  (who  was  also  making  a 
pleasant  expression  of  countenance,  as  the  snow  beat  on  his  nose)  ;  and 
to  be  so  good  as  give  notice  at  Chaigny  that  I  was  there.  He  assured 
me  he  would  tell  it  to  the  postmistress  herself,  she  being  his  cousin  ; 
that  she  was  a  very  amiable  woman,  married  three  years  ago  to  one  of 
the  honestest  men  of  the  place,  nephew  to  the  king's  procureur  at 

 :  in  fine,  after  giving  me  all  the  outs  and  ins  of  himself,  the 

curate,  of  his  cousin,  his  cousin's  husband,  and  I  know  not  whom  more, 
he  was  pleased  to  give  the  spurs  to  his  horse,  which  thereupon  gave  a 
grunt,  and  went  on.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  had  sent  the  postilion 
off  to  Mucreau,  which  he  knew  the  road  to,  for  he  went  thither  daily, 
he  said,  to  have  a  glass  ;  a  thing  I  could  well  believe,  or  even  two 
glasses.  The  man  was  but  tipsified  when  he  went ;  happily,  when  he 
returned,  which  was  very  late,  he  was  drunk.  I  walked  sentry  :  sev- 
eral Beaune  men  passed,  all  of  whom  asked  me,  if  anything  had  be- 
fallen ?  I  answered  one  of  them,  that  it  was  an  experiment  ;  that  I 
had  been  sent  from  Paris  to  see  whether  a  chaise  would  run  with  one 
wheel;  mine  had  come  so  far,  but  I  was  going  to  write  that  two  wheels 
were  preferable.  At  this  moment  my  worthy  friend  struck  his  shin 
against  the  other  wheel ;  clappecf  his  hand  on  the  hurt  place  ;  swore,  as 
I  had  near  done  ;  and  then  said,  smiling,  "Ah,  Monsieur,  there  is  the 
other  wheel  !  "  "  The  devil  there  is  !  "  said  I,  as  if  astonished.  Another, 
after  examining  long,  with  a  very  -capable  air,  informed  me,  "  3fafo?\ 
Monsieur !  it  is  your  essi"  (meaning  essieu,  or  axle)  "  that  is  broken."' 


MIR  ABE  AIT. 


123 


Mirabeau's  errand  to  Provence,  in  this  winter-season,  was 
several-fold.  To  look  after  the  Mirabeau  estates  ;  to  domes- 
ticate himself  among  his  people  and  peers  in  that  region  ; — 
perhaps  to  choose  a  wife.  Lately,  as  we  saw,  the  old  Mar- 
quis could  think  of  none  suitable,  if  it  were  not  the  Empress 
Catherine.  But  Gabriel  has  ripened  astonishingly  since  that, 
under  this  sunshine  of  paternal  favour, — the  first  gleam  of 
such  weather  he  has  ever  had.  Short  of  the  Empress,  it  were 
very  well  to  marry,  the  Marquis  now  thinks,  provided  your 
bride  had  money.  A  bride,  not  with  money,  yet  with  con- 
nexions, expectations,  is  found  :  and  by  stormy  eloquence 
(Marquis  seconding)  is  carried :  woe  w^orth  the  hour !  Her 
portrait,  by  the  seconding  Marquis  himself,  is  not  very  cap- 
tivating :  c  Marie-Emilie  de  Covet,  only  daughter  of  the  Mar- 
fi  quis  de  Marignane,  in  her  eighteenth  year  then  ;  she  had  a 
'  very  ordinary  face,  even  a  vulgar  one  at  the  first  glance ; 
'  brown,  nay  almost  tawny  (inawicaud)  ;  fine  eyes,  fine  hair  ; 
c  teeth  not  good,  but  aprettyish  continual  smile  ;  figure  small,' 
'  but  agreeable,  though  leaning  a  little  to  one  side  ;  showed 
c  great  sprightliness  of  mind,  ingenuous,  adroit,  delicate, 
4  lively,  sportful  ;  one  of  the  most  essentially  pretty  charac- 
e  ters.'  This  brown,  almost  tawny  little  woman,  much  of  a 
fool  too,  Mirabeau  gets  to  wife,  on  the  22d  of  June  1772. 
With  her,  and  with  a  pension  of  3,000  francs  from  his  father- 
in-law,  and  one  of  6,000  from  his  own  father  (say  500Z.  in  all), 
and  rich  expectancies,  he  shall  sit  down,  in  the  bottom  of 
Provence,  by  his  own  hired  hearth,  in  the  town  of  Aix,  and 
bless  Heaven. 

Candour  will  admit  that  this  young  Alexander,  just  begin- 
ning his  twenty- fourth  year,  might  grumble  a  little,  seeing 
only  one  such  world  to  conquer.  However,  he  had  his  books, 
he  had  his  hopes  ;  health,  faculty  ;  a  Universe  (whereof  even 
the  town  of  Aix  formed  part)  all  rich  with  fruit  and  forbid- 
den-fruit round  him  ;  the  unspeakable  '  seed-field  of  Time ' 
wdierein  to  sow :  he  said  to  himself,  Go  to,  I  will  be  wise. 
And  yet  human  nature  is  frail.  One  can  judge  too,  whether 
the  old  Marquis,  now  coming  into  decided  lawsuit  with  his 
wife,  was  of  a  humour  to  forgive  peccadiloes.    The  terrible, 


124 


MIR  ABE AU. 


hoarsely  calm,  Rhadamanthine  way  in  which  he  expresses 
himself  on  this  matter  of  the  lawsuit  to  his  brother,  and  en- 
joins silence  from  all  mortals  but  him,  might  affect  weak 
nerves ;  wherefore,  contrary  to  purpose,  we  omit  it.  O  just 
Marquis !  In  fact,  the  Eequetti  household,  at  this  time,  can 
do  little  for  frail  human  nature  ;  except,  perhaps,  make  it 
fall  faster.  The  Requetti  household  is  getting  scattered  ;  not 
always  led  asunder,  but  driven  and  hurled  asunder  :  the  tor- 
nado times  for  it  have  begun.  One  daughter  is  Madame  du 
Saillant  (still  living),  a  judicious  sister :  another  is  Madame 
de  Cabris,  not  so  judicious  ;  for,  indeed,  her  husband  has  law- 
suits,— owing  to  c  defamatory  couplets '  proceeding  from  him ; 
she  gets  '  insulted  on  the  public  promenade  of  Grasse,'  by  a 
certain  Baron  de  Villeneuve-Moans,  whom  some  defamatory 
couplet  had  touched  upon  ; — all  the  parties  in  the  business 
being  fools.  Nay,  poor  woman,  she  by  and  by,  we  find,  takes 
up  with  preternuptial  persons  ;  with  a  certain  Brianson  in 
epaulettes,  described  candidly,  by  the  Fits  Adoptif,  as  '  a  man 
who ' — is  not  fit  to  be  described. 

A  young  heir-apparent  of  all  the  Mirabeaus  is  required  to 
make  some  figure  ;  especially  in  marrying  himself.  The  pres- 
ent young  heir-apparent  has  nothing  to  make  a  figure  with 
but  bare  five-hundred  a-year,  and  very  considerable  debts. 
Old  Mirabeau  is  hard  as  the  Mosaic  rock,  and  no  wand  proves 
miraculous  on  him  ;  for  trousseaus,  cadeaus,  foot- washings,  fes- 
tivities and  house-heatings,  he  does  simply  not  yield  one  sou. 
The  heir  must  himself  yield  them.  He  does  so,  and  hand- 
somely :  but,  alas,  the  five-hundred  a-year,  and  very  consid- 
erable debts  ?  Quit  Aix  and  dinner-giving  ;  retire  to  the  old 
Chateau  in  the  gorge  of  two  valleys  !  Devised  and  done. 
But  now,  a  young  Wife  used  to  the  delicacies  of  life,  ought 
she  not  to  have  some  suite  of  rooms  done-up  for  her  ?  Up- 
holsterers hammer  and  furbish  ;  with  effect  ;  not  without  bills. 
Then  the  very  considerable  Jew  debts  !  Poor  Mirabeau  sees 
nothing  for  it,  but  to  run  to  the  father-in-law  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  ;  and  conjure  him  to  make  those  'rich  expectations' 
in  some  measure  fruitions.  Forty-thousand  francs  ;  to  such 
length  will  the  father-in-law,  moved  by  these  tears,  by  this 


MIR  ABE AU. 


125 


fire-eloquence,  table  ready-money ;  provided  old  Marquis 
Mirabeau,  who  has  some  provisional  reversionary  interest  in 
the  thing,  will  grant  quittance.  Old  Marquis  Mirabeau,  writ- 
ten to  in  the  most  impassioned  persuasive  manner,  answers 
by  a  letter,  of  the  sort  they  call  Sealed  Letter  [Lettre  de  Cachet), 
ordering  the  impassioned  Persuasive,  under  his  Majesty's 
hand  and  seal,  to  bundle  into  Coventry  as  we  should  say,  into 
Manosque  as  the  Sealed  Letter  says  ! — Farewell,  thou  old 
Chateau,  with  thy  upholstered  rooms,  on  thy  sheer  rock,  by 
the  angry-flowing  Durance  ;  welcome,  thou  miserable  little 
borough  of  Manosque,  since  hither  Fate  drives  us  !  In  Manos- 
que, too,  a  man  can  live,  and  read ;  can  write  an  Essai  sur  le 
Despotisme  (and  have  it  printed  in  Switzerland,  1774)  ;  full  of 
fire  and  rough  vigour,  and  still  worth  reading. 

The  Essay  on  Despotism,  with  so  little  of  the  Ephemerides 
and  Quesnay  in  it,  could  find  but  a  hard  critic  in  the  old 
Marquis  ;  snuffling-out  something  (one  fancies)  about  6  Reflex 
and  reverberance  ; '  formulas  getting  swallowed  ;  rash  hair- 
brain  treating  matters  that  require  age  and  gravity  ; — how- 
ever, let  it  pass.  Unhappily  there  came  other  offences.  A 
certain  gawk,  named  Chevalier  de  Gassaud,  accustomed  to 
visit  in  the  house  at  Manosque,  sees  good  to  commence  a  kind 
of  theoretic  flirtation  with  the  little  brown  Wife,  which  she 
theoretically  sees  good  to  return.  Billet  meets  billet,  glance 
follows  glance,  crescendo  allegro  ; — till  the  Husband  opens  his 
lips,  volcano-like,  with  a  proposal  to  kick  Chevalier  de  Gas- 
saud out  of  doors.  Chevalier  de  Gassaud  goes  unkicked,  but 
nat  without  some  explosion  or  eclat :  there  is  like  to  be  a 
duel ;  only  that  Gassaud,  knowing  what  a  sword  this  Eiquetti 
wears,  will  not  fight ;  and  his  father  has  to  plead  and  beg. 
Generous  Count,  kill  not  my  poor  son  :  alas,  already  this 
most  lamentable  explosion  itself  has  broken-off  the  finest 
marriage-settlement,  and  now  the  family  will  not  hear  of  him ! 
The  generous  Count,  so  pleaded  with,  not  only  flings  the  duel  to 
the  winds,  but  gallops  off,  forgetful  of  the  Lettre  de  Cachet,  half 
desperate,  to  plead  with  the  marriage-family  ;  to  preach  with 
them,  and  pray,  till  they  have  taken  poor  Gassaud  into  favour 
again.    Prosperous  in  this,  for  nothing  can  resist  such  plead- 


126 


MIR  ABE AU. 


ing,  he  may  now  ride  home  more  leisurely,  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  right  action  for  once. 

As  we  hint,  this  ride  of  his  lies  beyond  the  limits  fixed  in 
the  royal  Sealed  Letter  ;  but  no  one  surely  will  mind  it,  no 
one  will  report  it.  A  beautiful  summer  evening  :  0  poor 
Gabriel,  it  is  the  last  peaceably  prosperous  ride  thou  shait 
have  for  long, — perhaps  almost  ever  in  the  world  !  For  lo  ! 
who  is  this  that  comes  curricling  through  the  level  yellow 
sunlight ;  like  one  of  Respectability,  keeping  his  gig  ?  By 
Day  and  Night !  it  is  that  base  Baron  de  Villeneuve-Moans, 
who  insulted  Sister  Cabris  in  the  promenade  of  Grasse  ! 
Human  nature,  without  time  for  reflection,  is  liable  to  err. 
The  swift-rolling  gig  is  already  in  contact  with  one,  the  horse 
rearing  against  your  horse  ;  and  you  dismount,  almost  without 
knowing.  Satisfaction  which  gentlemen  expect,  Monsieur ! 
No  ?  Do  I  hear  rightly  No  ?  In  that  case,  Monsieur — And 
this  wild  Gabriel  (Jwrresco  ref evens  !)  clutches  the  respectable 
Villeneuve-Moans  ;  and  horsewhips  him  there,  not  emblem- 
atically only,  but  practically,  on  the  king's  highway :  seen 
of  some  peasants  !  Here  is  a  message  for  Rumour  to  blow 
abroad. 

Rumour  blows, — to  Paris  as  elsewhither  :  for  answer,  on 
the  26th  of  June,  1774,  there  arrives  a  fresh  Sealed  Letter  of 
more  emphasis  ;  there  arrive  with  it  grim  cat  clip  oles  and  their 
chaise  :  the  Swallower  of  Formulas,  snatched  away  from  his 
wife,  from  his  child  then  dying,  from  his  last  shadow  of  a 
home,  even  an  exiled  home,  is  trundling  towards  Marseilles  ; 
towards  the  Castle  of  If,  which  frowns-out  among  the  waters 
in  the  roadstead  there  !  Girt  with  the  blue  Mediterranean  ; 
within  iron  stanchions  ;  cut-off  from  pen,  paper  and  friends, 
and  men,  except  the  Cerberus  of  the  place,  who  is  charged  to 
be  very  sharp  with  him,  there  shall  he  sit :  such  virtue  is  in 
a  Sealed  Letter  ;  so  has  the  grim  old  Marquis  ordered  it. 
Our  gleam  of  sunshine,  then,  is  darkening  miserably  down  ? 
Down,  O  thou  poor  Mirabeau,  to  thick  midnight !  Surely 
Formulas  are  ail-too  cruel  on  thee  :  thou  art  getting  really 
into  war  with  Formulas  (terriblest  of  wars)  ;  and  thou,  by  God's 
help  and  the  Devil's,  wilt  make  away  with  them, — in  the  ter- 


MIR  ABE  A  U.. 


127 


riblest  manner !  From  this  hour,  we  say,  thick  and  thicker 
darkness*  settles  round  poor  Gabriel ;  his  life-path  growing 
ever  painfuller ;  alas,  growing  ever  more  devious,  beset  by 
ignes  fatai,  and  lights  not  of  Heaven.  Such  Alcides'  Labours 
have  seldom  been  allotted  to  any  man. 

Check  thy  hot  frenzy,  thy  hot  tears,  poor  Mirabeau  ;  adjust 
thyself  as  it  may  be  ;  for  there  is  no  help.  Autumn  becomes 
loud  winter,  revives  into  gentle  spring  :  the  waves  beat  round 
the  Castle  of  If,  at  the  mouth  of  Marseilles  harbour  ;  girdling 
in  the  unhappiest  man.  No,  not  the  unhappiest :  poor  Gabriel 
has  such  a  'fond  gaillard,  basis  of  joy  and  gaiety  ; '  there  is  a 
deep  fiery  life  in  him,  which  no  blackness  of  destiny  can  quench. 
The  Cerberus  of  If,  M.  Dallegre,  relents,  as  all  Cerberuses  do 
with  him  ;  gives  paper,  gives  sympathy  and  counsel.  Nay 
letters  have  already  been  introduced  ;  £  buttoned  in  some 
scoundrel's  gaiters/  the  old  Marquis  says !  On  Sister  du 
Saillant's  kind  letter  there  fall  '  tears  ; '  nevertheless  you  do 
not  always  weep.  You  do  better  ;  write  a  brave  Col-d' Argent's 
Memoirs  (quoted-from  above)  ;  occupy  yourself  with  projects 
and  efforts.  Sometimes,  alas,  you  do  worse,  though  in  the 
other  direction, — where  Canteen-keepers  have  pretty  wives ! 
A  mere  peccadillo  this  of  the  frail  fair  Cantiniire  (according  to 
the  FLls  Adoptif) ;  of  which  too  much  was  made  at  the  time. 
— Nor  are  juster  consolations  wanting  ;  sisters  and  brothers 
bidding  you  be  of  hope.  Our  readers  have  heard  Count  Mir- 
abeau designated  as  c  the  elder  of  my  lads  : '  what  if  we  now 
exhibited  the  younger  for  one  moment  ?  The  Maltese  Chev- 
alier de  Mirabeau,  a  rough  son  of  the  sea  in  those  days  :  he 
also  is  a  sad  dog,  but  has  the  advantage  of  not  being  the  elder. 
He  has  started  from  Malta,  from  a  sick-bed,  and  got  hither  to 
Marseilles,  in  the  dead  of  winter  ;  the  link  of  Nature  drawing 
him,  shaggy  sea-monster  as  he  is. 

'  It  was  a  rough  wind  ;  none  of  the  boatmen  would  leave  the  quay 
with  me  :  I  induced  two  of  them,  more  by  bully ings  than  by  money  ; 
for  thou  knowest  I  have  no  money,  and  am  well  furnished,  thank  God, 
with  the  gift  of  speaking  or  stuttering.  I  reach  the  Castle  of  If:  gates 
closed  ;  and  the  Lieutenant,  as  M.  Dallegre  was  not  there,  tells  me 
quite  sweetly  that  I  must  return  as  I  came.    "Not,  if  you  please,  till  I 


128 


MIR  ABE  A  TJ. 


have  seen  Gabriel."  "It  is  not  allowed." — UI  will  write  to  him. 
"  Not  that  either. "—"Then  I  will  wait  for  M.  Dallegre."  "  Just  so  ; 
but  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  not  more."  Whereupon  I  take  my  reso- 
lution ;  I  go  to  La  Mouret '  (the  Canteen-keeper's  pretty  wife) ;  '  we 
agree  that  so  soon  as  the  tattoo  is  beat,  I  shall  see  this  poor  devil.  I  get 
to  him,  in  fact ;  not  like  a  paladin,  but  like  a  pickpocket  or  a  gallant, 
which  thou  wilt ;  and  we  unbosom  ourselves.  They  had  been'  afraid 
that  he  would  heat  my  head  to  the  temperature  of  his  own :  Sister 
Cabris,  they  do  him  little  justice  ;  I  can  assure  thee  that  while  he  was 
telling  me  his  story,  and  when  my  rage  broke  out  in  these  words  : 
1  'Though  still  weakly,  I  have  two  arms,  strong  enough  to  break  M. 
Villeneuve-Moans's,  or  his  cowardly  persecuting  brother's  at  least,"  he 
said  to  me,  Moa  ami.  thou  wilt  ruin  us  both."  And,  I  confess,  this 
consideration  alone,  perhaps,  hindered  the  execution  of  a  project,  which 
could  not  have  profited,  which  nothing  but  the  fermentation  of  a  head 
such  as  mine  could  excuse.'  1 

'Header,  this  tarry  young  Maltese  Chevalier  is  the  Vicomte 
de  Mirabeau,  or  Younger  Mirabeau  ;  whom  all  men  heard  of 
in  the  Ee volution  time, — oftenest  by  the  more  familiar  name 
of  Mirabeau-Tonneau,  or  Barrel  Mirabeau,  from  his  bulk,  and 
the  quantity  of  drink  he  usually  held.  It  is  the  same  Barrel 
Mirabeau  who,  in  the  States-General,  broke  his  sword  be- 
cause the  Noblesse  gave  in,  and  chivalry  was  now  ended  ;  for 
in  politics  he  was  directly  the  opposite  of  his  elder  brother  ; 
and  spoke  considerably  as  a  public  man,  making  men  laugh 
(for  he  was  a  wild  surly  fellow,  with  much  wit  in  him  and 
much  liquor)  ; — then  went  indignantly  across  the  Khine,  and 
drilled  Emigrant  Regiments  :  but  as  he  sat  one  morning  in 
his  tent,  sour  of  stomach  doubtless  and  of  heart,  meditating 
in  Tartarean  humour  on  the  turn  things  took,  a  certain  cap- 
tain or  subaltern  demands  admittance  on  business  ;  is  re- 
fused ;  again  demands,  and  then  again,  till  the  Colonel  Vis- 
count Barrel  Mirabeau,  blazing-up  into  a  mere  burning 
brandy-barrel,  clutches  his  sword,  and  tumbles-out  on  this 
canaille  of  an  intruder, — alas,  on  the  canaille  of  an  intruder's 
sword-point  (who  drew  with  swift  dexterity),  and  dies,  and  it 
is  all  done  with  him  !  That  was  the  fifth  act  of  Barrel  Mira- 
beau's  life-tragedy,  unlike,  and  yet  like,  this  first  act  in  th« 
■  Vol.  ii.  p.  43. 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


129 


Castle  of  If  ;  and  so  the  curtain  fell,  the  Newspapers  calling  it 
'apoplexy'  and  '  alarming  accident.' 

Brother  and  Sisters,  the  little  brown  Wife,  the  Cerberus  of 
If,  all  solicit  for  a  penitent  unfortunate  sinner.  The  old  Mar- 
quis's ear  is  deaf  as  that  of  Destiny.  Solely  by  way  of  varia- 
tion, not  of  alleviation,  the  rather  as  the  If  Cerberus  too  has 
been  bewitched,  Ik  has  this  sinner  removed,  in  May  next, 
after  some  nine-months  space,  to  the  Castle  of  Joux  ;  an  c  old 
owl's  nest,  with  a  few  invalids,'  among  the  Jura  Mountains. 
Instead  of  melancholy  main,  let  him  now  try  the  melancholy 
granites  (still  capped  with  snow  at  this  season),  with  their 
mists  and  owlets ;  and  on  the  whole  adjust  himself  as  if  for 
permanence  or  continuance  there  ;  on  a  pension  of  1,200 
francs,  fifty  pounds  a-year,  since  he  could  not  do  with  five- , 
hundred  !  Poor  Mirabeau  ; — and  poor  Mirabeau's  Wife  ? 
Reader,  the  foolish  little  brown  woman  tires  of  soliciting  : 
her  child  being  buried,  her  husband  buried  alive,  and  her 
little  brown  self  being  still  above  ground  and  under  twenty, 
she  takes  to  recreation,  theoretic  flirtation  ;  ceases  soliciting, 
begins  successful  forgetting.  The  marriage,  cut  asunder  that 
day  the  catchpole  chaise  drew-up  at  Manosque,  will  never 
come  together  again,  in  spite  of  efforts  ;  but  flow  onwards  in 
two  separate  streams,  to  lose  itself  in  the  frightfullest  sand- 
deserts.  Husband  and  wife  never  more  saw  each  other  with 
eyes. 

Not  far  from  the  melancholy  Castle  of  Joux  lies  the  little 
melancholy  borough  of  Pontarlier ;  wrhither  our  Prisoner  has 
^eave,  on  his  parole,  to  walk  when  he  chooses.  A  melancholy 
little  borough  :  yet  in  it  is  a  certain  Monnier  Household 
whereby  hangs,  and  will  hang,  a  tale.  Of  old  M.  Monnier, 
respectable  legal  President  now  in  his  seventy-fifth  year,  we 
shall  say  less  than  of  his  wife,  Sophie  Monnier  (once  de  Euffey, 
from  Dijon,  sprung  from  legal  Presidents  there),  who  is  still 
but  short  way  out  of  her  teens.  Yet  she  has  been  married, 
or  seemed  to  be  married,  four  years  :  one  of  the  loveliest 
sad-heroic  women  of  this  or  any  district  of  country.  What 
accursed  freak  of  Fate  brought  January  and  May  together 


130 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


here  once  again  ?  Alas,  it  is  a  custom  there,  good  reader  ! 
Thus  the  old  Naturalist  Buffon,  who,  at  the  age  of  sixty-three 
(what  is  called  '  the  Saint-Martin's  summer  of  incipient  dotage 
and  new-myrtle  garlands/  which  visits  some  men),  went  ran- 
sacking the  country  for  a  young  wife,  had  very  nearly  got  this 
identical  Sophie  ;  but  did  get  another,  known  as  Madame  de 
Buffon,  well  known  to  Philip  Egalite,  having  turned  out  ill. 
Sophie  de  Kuffey  loved  wise  men,  but  not  at  that  extremely 
advanced  period  of  life.  However,  the  question  for  her  is  : 
Does  she  love  a  Convent  better  ?  Her  mother  and  father  are 
rigidly  devout,  and  rigidly  vain  and  poor  :  the  poor  girl,  sad- 
heroic,  is  probably  a  kind  of  freethinker.  And  now,  old  Pres- 
ident Monnier  '  quarrelling  with  his  daughter  ; '  and  then  com- 
ing over  to  Pontarlier  with  gold-bags,  marriage-settlements, 
and  the  prospect  of  dying  soon  ?  It  is  that  same  miserable 
tale,  often  sung  against,  often  spoken  against ;  very  miserable 
indeed ! — But  fancy  what  an  effect  the  fiery  eloquence  of  a 
Mirabeau  produced  in  this  sombre  Household  :  one's  young 
girl-dreams  incarnated,  most  unexpectedly,  in  this  wild-glow- 
ing mass  of  manhood,  though  rather  ugly  ;  old  Monnier  him- 
self gleaming-up  into  a  kind  of  vitality  to  hear  him  !  Or  fancy 
whether  a  sad-heroic  face,  glancing  on  you  with  a  thankfulness 

like  to  become  glad-heroic,  were  not  •?    Mirabeau  felt,  by 

kuown  symptoms,  that  the  sweetest,  fatallest  incantation  was 
stealing  over  him,  which  could  lead  only  to  the  devil,  for  all 
parties  interested.  He  wrote  to  his  wife,  entreating  in  the 
name  of  Heaven,  that  she  would  come  to  him  :  thereby  might 
the  '  sight  of  his  duties '  fortify  him  ;  he  meanwhile  would  at 
least  forbear  Pontarlier.  The  wife  c  answered  by  a  few  icy" 
\  lines,  indicating,  in  a  covert  way,  that  she  thought  me  not 
'  in  my  wits.'  He  ceases  forbearing  Pontarlier  ;  sweeter  is  it 
than  the  owl's  nest :  he  returns  thither,  with  sweeter  and  ever 
sweeter  welcome  ;  and  so —  !  — 

Old  Monnier  saw  nothing,  or  winked  hard  ; — not  so  our  old 
foolish  Commandant  of  the  Castle  of  Joux.  He,  though  kind 
to  his  prisoner  formerly,  1  had  been  making  some  pretensions 
£  to  Sophie  himself ;  he  was  but  forty  or  five-and-forty  years 
1  older  than  I ;  my  ugliness  was  not  greater  than  his ;  and  I 


MIRABEAU. 


131 


'  had  the  advantage  of  being  an  honest  man.'  Green-eyed 
Jealousy,  in  the  shape  of  this  old  ugly  Commandant,  warns  Mon- 
nier  by  letter ;  also,  on  some  thin  pretext,  restricts  Mirabeau 
henceforth  to  the  four  walls  of  Joux.  Mirabeau  flings  back 
such  restriction,  in  an  indignant  Letter  to  this  green-eyed 
Commandant  ;  indignantly  steps  over  into  Switzerland,  which 
is  but  a  few  miles  off ; — returns,  however,  in  a  day  or  two  (it 
is  dark  January  1776),  covertly  to  Pontarlier. '  There  is  an  ex- 
plosion, what  they  call  eclat  Sophie  Monnier,  sharply  dealt 
with,  resists  ;  avows  her  love  for  Gabriel  Honore  ;  asserts  her 
right  to  love  him,  her  purpose  to  continue  doing  it.  She  is 
sent  home  to  Dijon  ;  Gabriel  Honore  covertly  follows  her 
thither. 

Explosions  :  what  a  continued  series  of  explosions, — 
through  winter,  spring,  summer  !  There  are  tears,  devotional 
exercises,  threatenings  to  commit  suicide  ;  there  are  stolen 
interviews,  perils,  proud  avowals  and  lowly  concealments.  He 
on  his  part  c  voluntarily  constitutes  himself  prisoner ; J  and 
does  other  haughty,  vehement  things ;  some  Commandants 
behaving  honourably,  and  some  not :  one  Commandant  (old 
Marquis  Mirabeau  of  the  Chateau  of  Bignon)  getting  ready 
his  thunderbolts  in  the  distance  !  c  I  have  been  lucky  enough 
£  to  obtain  Mont  Saint-Michel,  in  Normandy,'  says  the  old 
Marquis  :  '  I  think  that  prison  good,  because  there  is  first  the 
£  Castle  itself,  then  a  ring-work  all  round  the  mountain  ;  and, 
'  after  that,  a  pretty  long  passage  among  the  sands,  where  you 
*  need  guides,  to  avoid  being  drowned  in  the  quicksands.' 
Yes,  it  rises  there,  that  Mountain  of  Saint-Michel,  and  Moun- 
tain of  Misery  ;  towering  sheer  up,  like  a  bleak  Pisgah  with 
outlooks  only  into  desolation,  sand,  salt-water  and  despair.1 
Fly,  thou  poor  Gabriel  Honore  !  Thou  poor  Sophie,  return 
to  Pontarlier  ;  for  Convent-walls  too  are  cruel ! 

Gabriel  flies  ;  and  indeed  there  fly  with  him  Sister  Cabris 
and  her  preternuptial  epauletted  Brianson,  who  are  already 
in  flight  for  their  own  behoof  :  into  deep  thickets  and  cov- 
ered ways,  wide  over  the  South-west  of  France.  Marquis 
Mirabeau,  thinking  with  a  fond  sorrow  of  Mont  Saint-Michel 
1  See  Memoires  de  Madame  de  Genlis,  iii.  201. 


132 


MIRABEA  U. 


and  its  quicksands,  chooses  the  two  best  bloodhounds  the 
Police  of  Paris  has  (Inspector  Brugniere  and  another)  ;  and, 
unmuzzling  them,  cries  :  Hunt ! — Man  being  a  venatory  creat- 
ure, and  the  Chase  perennially  interesting  to  him,  we  have 
thought  it  might  be  good  to  present  certain  broken  glimpses 
of  this  man-hunt  through  the  Southwest  of  France  ;  of  which, 
by  a  singular  felicity,  some  Narrative  exists,  in  the  shape  of 
official  reports,  very  ill-spelt  and  otherwise  curious,  written 
clown  sectionally  by  the  chief  slot-hound  himself,  for  trans- 
mittal to  the  chief  huntsman  eyeing  it  intently  from  the  dis- 
tance. It  is  not  every  day  that  there  is  such  game  afield  as 
a  Gabriel  Honore,  such  a  huntsman  tallyhoing  in  the  distance 
as  old  Marquis  Mirabeau  ;  or  that  yon  have  a  hound  wTho  can, 
in  never  so  bad  spelling,  tell  you  what  his  notions  of  the  busi- 
ness are : 

1  On  arriving  at  Dijon,  I  went  to  see  Madame  laPr^sidente  Ruffey,  to 
gather  new  informations  from  her.  Madame  informed  me  that  there 
was  in  the  town  a  certain  Chevalier  de  Macon,  a  half -pay  officer,  who 
was  the  Sieur  Mirabeau's  friend,  his  companion  and  confidant,  and 
that  if  any  one  could  get  acquainted  with  Mm  ' — . — '  The  Sieur  Brug- 
niere went  therefore  to  lodge  at  this  Macon's  inn  ;  finds  means  to  get 
acquainted  with  him,  affecting  the  same  tastes,  following  him  to  fencing- 
rooms,  billiard-tables  and  other  such  places. ' — 

'  Accordingly,  on  reaching  Geneva,  we  learn  that  the  Sieur  Mirabeau 
did  arrive  there  on  the  fifth  of  June.  He  left  it  for  Thonon  in  Savoy  ; 
two  women  in  men's  clothes  came  asking  for  him,  and  they  all  went 
away  together,  by  Chambory,  and  thence  by  Turin.  At  Thonon  we 
could  not  learn  what  road  they  had  taken  ;  so  secret  are  they,  and  in- 
volve themselves  in  all  manner  of  detours.  Aft'er  three  days  of  incredi- 
ble fatigue,  we  discover  the  man  that  had  driven  them :  it  is  back  to 
Geneva  that  they  are  gone  ;  we  hasten  hither  again,  and  have  good 
hope  of  finding  them  now. ' — Hope  fallacious  as  before  ! 

4  However,  what  helps  Brugniere  and  me  a  little  is  this,  that  the 
Sieur  Mirabeau  and  his  train,  though  already  armed  like  smugglers, 
bought  yet  other  pistols,  and  likewise  sabres,  even  a  hunting-knife  with 
a  secret  pistol  for  handle  ;  we  learned  this'  at  Geneva.  They  take  re- 
mote diabolic  roads  to  avoid  entering  France.'  *  *  *  *  1  Follow- 
ing on  foot  the  trace  of  them,  it  brings  us  to  Lyons,  where  they  seem 
to  have  taken  the  most  obscure  methods,  accompanied  with  impenetra- 
ble cunning,  to  enter  the  town  :  we  lost  all  track  of  them  ;  our  researches 
were  most  painful.    At  length  we  have  come  upon  a  man  named  Saint- 


MTRADEAU. 


133 


Jean,  confidential  servant  of  Madame  de  Cabris.' — 1  On  quitting  this, 
along  with  Brianson,  who  I  think  is  a  bad  subject,  M.  de  Mirabeau  sig- 
nified to  Saint-Jean  that  they  were  going  to  Lorgue  in  Provence,  which 
is  Brianson's  country  ;  that  Brianson  was  then  to  accompany  him  as  far 
as  Nice,  where  he  would  embark  for  Geneva  and  pass  a  month  there.' — 

'  Following  this  trace  of  M.  de  Mirabeau,  who  had  embarked  on  the 
Rhone  at  Lyons,  we  came  to  Avignon  :  here  we  find  he  took  post-horses, 
having  sent  for  them  half  a  league  from  the  town  ;  he  had  another  pair 
of  pistols  bought  for  him  here  ;  ancj  then,  being  well  hidden  in  the  cab- 
riolet, drove  through  Avignon,  put  letters  in  the  post-office  ;  it  was 
about  the  dusk  of  the  evening.  But  now  at  that  time  was  the  chief  tu- 
mult of  the  Beaucaire  Fair,1  and  this  cabriolet  was  so  lost  in  the  crowd 
that  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  track  it  farther.  However,  the  domes- 
tic Saint- Jean  ' — .  *  *  — 4  a  M.  Marsaut,  Advocate,  an  honourable 
man,  who  gave  us  all  possible  directions.'  'He  introduced  us  to  this 
Brianson,  with  whom  we  contrived  to  sup.  We  gave  ourselves  out  for 
travellers,  Lyons  merchants,  who  were  going,  the  one  of  us  to  Geneva 
and  Italy,  the  other  to  Geneva  only  :  it  was  the  way  to  make  this  Bri- 
anson speak.'    *    *  * 

k  When  you  leave  Provence  to  pass  into  the  Country  of  Nice,  you 
have  to  wade  across  the  Var  ;  a  torrent  which  is  almost  always  dan- 
gerous and  is  often  impracticable  :  it  sometimes  spreads  out  to  a  quarter 
of  a  league  in  breadth,  and  has  an  astonishing  rapidity  at  all  times  :  its 
reputation  is  greater  still  ;  and  travellers  who-  have  to  cross  speak  of  it 
with  terror.  On  each  bank  there  are  strong  men  who  make  a  trade  of 
passing  travellers  across  ;  going  before  them  and  around  them,  with 
strong  poles,  to  sound  the  bottom,  which  will  change  several  times  in  a 
day  :  they  take  great  pains  to  increase  your  fear,  even  when  there  is 
not  danger.  Those  people,  by  whose  means  we  passed,  told  us  that 
they  had  offered  to  pass  a  gentleman  having  the  same  description  as  he 
we  seek  ;  that  this  gentlaman  would  have  nobody,  but  crossed  with 
some  women  of  the  country,  who  were  wading  without  guide  ;  that  he 
seemed  to  dislike  being  looked  at  too  close  :  we  made  the  utmost  re- 
searches there.  We  found  that,  at  some  distance,  this  person  had  en- 
tered a  hedge  tavern  for  some  refreshment  ;  that  he  had  a  gold  box  with 
a  lady's  portrait  in  it,  and  in  a  word  the  same  description  every  way  ; 
that  he  asked  if  they  did  not  know  of  any  ship  at  Nice  for  Italy,  and 
that  they  told  him  of  one  for  England.  He  had  crossed  the  Var,  as  I 
had  the  honour  of  informing  you,  Monsieur,  above  :  I  have  the  honour 
of  observing  that  there  is  no  Police  at  Nice.'    *  * 

*  *  1  Found  that  there  had  embarked,  at  Villefranche,  which  is 
another  little  haven  near  to  Nice,  a  private  person  unknown,  answering 
still  to  the  same  description  (except  that  he  wore  a  red  coat,  whereas 

1  Napoleon's  Souper  de  Beaucaire  ! 


134 


MIR  ABE  A  V. 


M.  de  Mirabeau  has  been  followed  hitherto  under  a  green  coat,  a  red- 
brown  one  (morclore)%  and  a  gray  ribbed  one)  ;  and  embarked  for  Eng- 
land. In  spite  of  this  we  sent  persons  into  the  Heights  to  get  informa- 
tion, who  know  the  secret  passages ;  the  Sieur  Brugnit  re  mounted  a 
mule  accustomed  to  those  horrific  and  terrifying  Mountains,  took  a 
guide,  and  made  all  possible  researches  too  :  in  a  word.  Monsieur,  we 
have  done  all  that  the  human  mind  {Vesprit  Tiumain)  can  imagine,  and 
this  when  the  heats  are  so  excessive  ;  and  we  are  worn-out  with  fatigue, 
and  our  limbs  swoln.' 

Xo  :  all  that  the  human  mind  can  imagine  is  ineffectual.  " 
On  the  twenty-third  night  of  August  (1776),  Sophie  de  Mon- 
nier,  in  man's  clothes,  is  scaling  the  Monnier  garden-wall  at 
Pontarlier  ;  is  crossing  the  Swiss  marches,  wrapped  in  a  cloak 
of  darkness,  borne  on  the  wings  of  love  and  despair.  Gabriel 
Honoro,  wrapped  in  the  like  cloak,  borne  on  the  like  vehicle, 
is  gone  with  her  to  Holland,  — thenceforth  a  broken  man. 

'  Crime  forever  lamentable,'  ejaculates  the  Fils  Adopt  if ;  of 
which  the  world  has  so  spoken,  and  must  forever  speak  ! 9 
There  are,  indeed,  many  things  easy  to  be  spoken  of  it ;  and 
also  some  things  not  easy  to  be  spoken.  Why,  for  example, 
thou  virtudus  Fils  Adoptif  was  that  of  the  Canteen-keei^er's 
wife  at  If  such  a  peccadillo,  and  this  of  the  legal  President's 
wife  such  a  ciime,  lamentable  to  that  late  date  of  '  forever  ? 1 
The  present  reviewer  fancies  them  to  be  the  same  crime. 
Again,  might  not  the  first  grand  criminal  and  sinner  in  this 
business  be  legal  President  Monnier,  the  distracted,  spleen- 
stricken,  moon- stricken  old  man  ; — liable  to  trial,  with  non- 
acquittal  or  difficult  acquittal,  at  the  great  Bar  of  Nature 
herself  ?  And  then  the  second  sinner  in  it  ?  and  the  third 
and  the  fourth?  '  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you!'-- 
One  thing,  therefore,  the  present  reviewer  will  speak,  in  the 
words  of  old  Samuel  Johnson  :  My  dear  Fils  Adoptif,  my 
dear  brethren  of  Mankind,  '  endeavour  to  clear  your  mind  of 
Cant ! '  It  is  positively  the  prime  necessity  for  all  men,  and 
all  women  and  children,  in  these  days,  who  would  have  their 
sonls  live,  were  it  even  feebly,  and  not  die  of  the  detestablest 
asphyxia, — as  in  carbonic  vapour,  the  more  horrible,  for 
breathing  of,  the  more  clean  it  looks. 


M1RABEAU. 


135 


That  the  Parlement  of  Besaneon  indicted  Mirabeau  for 
rapt  et  vol,  abduction  and  robbery  ;  that  they  condemned 
him  c  in  contumacious  absence/  and  went  the  length  of  be- 
heading a  Paper  Effigy  of  him,  was  perhaps  extremely  suit- 
able ; — but  not  to  be  dwelt  on  here.  Neither  do  we  pry 
curiously  into  the  garret-life  in  Holland  and  Amsterdam  ; 
being  straitened  for  room.  The  wild  man  and  his  beautiful 
sad-heroic  woman  lived  out  their  romance  of  reality,  as  well 
as  was  to  be  expected.  Hot  tempers  go  not  always  softly 
together  ;  neither  did  the  course  of  true  love,  either  in  wed- 
lock or  in  elopement,  ever  run  smooth.  Yet  it  did  run,  in 
this  instance,  copious,  if  not  smooth  ;  with  quarrel  and  recon- 
cilement, tears  and  heart-effusion  ;  sharp  tropical  squalls,  and 
also  the  gorgeous  effulgence  and  exuberance  of  general 
tropical  weather.  It  was  like  a  little  Paphos  islet  in  the 
middle  of  blackness  ;  the  very  danger  and  despair  that  en- 
vironed it  made  the  islet  blissful ; — even  as  in  virtue  of  death, 
life  to  the  fretfullest  becomes  tolerable,  becomes  sweet,  death 
being  so  nigh.  At  any  hour,  might  not  king's  exempt  or 
other  dread  alguazil  knock  at  our  garret  establishment,  here 
'in  the  Kalbestrand,  at  Lequesne  the  tailor's/  and  dissolve  it? 
Gabriel  toils  for  Dutch  booksellers ;  bearing  their  heavy  load  ; 
translating  Watson's  Philip  Second ;  doing  endless  Gibeonite 
work :  earning,  however,  his  gold  louis  a-day.  Sophie  sews 
and  scours  beside  him,  with  her  soft  fingers,  not  grudging  it : 
in  hard  toils,  in  trembling  joys  begirt  with  terrors,  with  one 
terror,  that  of  being  parted, — their  days  roll  swiftly  on.  For 
eight  tropical  months  ! — Ah,  at  the  end  of  some  eight  months, 
(14th  May  1777)  enter  the  alguazil !  He  is  in  the  shape  of 
Brugniere,  our  old  slot-hound  of  the  Southwest  ;  the  swell- 
ing of  his  legs  is  fallen  now  ;  this  time  the  human  mind  has 
been  able  to  manage  it.  He  carries  King's  orders,  High 
Mightiness's  sanctions  ;  sealed  parchments.  Gabriel  Honore 
shall  be  carried  this  wTay,  Sophie  that  ;  Sophie,  like  to  be 
a  mother,  shall  behold  him  no  more.  Desperation,  even  in 
the  female  character,  can  go  no  farther :  she  will  kill  herself, 
that  hour,  as  even  the  slot-hound  believes, — had  not  the  very 
slot-hound,  in  mercy,  undertaken  that  they  should  have  some 


136 


MIR  ABE AU. 


means  of  correspondence  ;  that  hope  should  not  utterly  be  cut 
away.  With  embracings  and  interjections,  sobbings  that 
cannot  be  uttered,  they  tear  themselves  asunder,  stony  Paris 
now  nigh  :  Mirabeau  towards  his  prison  of  Vincennes  ;  Sophie 
to  some  milder  Convent-parlour  relegation,  there  to  await 
what  Fate,  very  minatory  at  this  time,  will  see  good  to  bring. 

Conceive  the  giant  Mirabeau  locked  fast,  then,  in  Doubt- 
ing-castle of  Vincennes  ;  his  hot  soul  surging-up,  wildly  break- 
ing itself  against  cold  obstruction  ;  the  voice  of  his  despair 
reverberated  on  him  by  dead  stone-walls.  Fallen  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  the  ambitious  haughty  man  ;  his  fair  life-hopes 
from  without  all  spoiled  and  become  foul  ashes  :  and  from 
within, — what  he  has  done,  what  he  has  parted  with  and  un- 
done 1  Deaf  as  Destiny  is  a  Rhadamanthine  father  ;  inacces- 
sible even  to  the  attemjDt  at  pleading.  Heavy  doors  have 
slammed-to  ;  their  bolts  growling  Woe  to  thee  !  Great  Paris 
sends  eastward  its  daily  multitudinous  hum  ;  in  the  evening 
sun  thou  seest  its  weathercocks  glitter,  its  old  grim  towers 
and  fuliginous  life-breath  all  gilded  :  and  thou  ? — Neither 
evening  nor  morning,  nor  change  of  day  nor  season,  brings 
deliverance.  Forgotten  of  Earth  ;  not  too  hopefully  remem- 
bered of  Heaven  !  No  passionate  Pater- Peccam  can  move  an 
old  Marquis  ;  deaf  he  as  Destiny.  Thou  must  sit  there. — For 
forty-two  months,  by  the  great  Zodiacal  Horologe  !  The  heir 
of  the  Riquettis,  sinful,  and  yet  more  sinned  against,  has 
worn  out  his  wardrobe  ;  complains  that  his  clothes  get  looped 
and  windowed,  insufficient  against  the  weather.  His  eye- 
sight is  failing  ;  the  family  disorder,  nephritis,  afflicts  him ; 
the  doctors  declare  horse-exercise  essential  to  preserve  life. 
Within  the  walls,  then  !  answers  the  old  Marquis.  Count  de 
Mirabeau  e  rides  in  the  garden  of  forty  paces  ;  with  quick 
turns,  hamperedly,  overlooked  by  donjons  and  high  stone- 
barriers. 

And  yet  fancy  not  Mirabeau  spent  his  time  in  mere  wailing 
and  raging.    Far  from  that ! — ■ 

To  whine,  put  finger  i'  the  eye,  and  sob, 
Because  he  had  ne'er  another  tub, 


MIR  ABE AU. 


137 


was  in  no  case  Mirabeau's  method,  more  than  Diogenes's. 
Other  such  wild-glowing  mass  of  life,  which  you  might  beat 
with  Cyclops5  hammers  (and,  alas,  not  beat  the  dross  out  of), 
was  not  in  Europe  at  that  time.  Call  him  not  the  strongest 
man  then  living  ;  for  light,  as  wre  said,  and  not  fire,  is  the 
strong  thing  :  yet  call  him  strong  too,  very  strong  ;  and  for 
toughness,  tenacity,  vivaciousness  and  a  fond  gaillard,  call 
him  toughest  of  all.  Eaging  passions,  ill-governed  ;  reckless 
tumult  from  within,  merciless  oppression  from  without ;  ten 
men  might  have  died  of  what  this  Gabriel  Honore  did  not 
yet  die  of.  Police-captain  Lenoir  allowed  him,  in  mercy  and 
according  to  engagement,  to  correspond  with  Sophie  ;  the 
condition  was,  that  the  letters  should  be  seen  by  Lenoir,  and 
be  returned  into  his  keeping.  Mirabeau  corresponded  ;  in 
fire  and  tears,  copiously,  not  Werter-like,  but  Mirabeau-like. 
Then  he  had  penitential  petitions,  Pater- Peccavis  to  write,  to 
get  j)resented  and  enforced  ;  for  which  end  all  manner  of 
friends  must  be  urged  :  correspondence  enough.  Besides, 
he  could  read,  though  very  limitedly :  he  could  even  compose 
or  compile  ;  extracting  not  in  the  manner  of  the  bee,  from  the 
very  Bible  and  Dom  Calmet,  a  '  Biblion  Eroticon'  which  can 
be  recommended  to  no  woman  or  man.  The  pious  Fits  Adoptif 
drops  a  veil  over  his  face  at  this  scandal  ;  and  says  lament- 
ably that  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  As  for  the  Correspond- 
ence with  Sophie,  it  lay  in  Lenoir's  desk,  forgotten  ;  but  was 
found  there  by  Manuel,  Procureur  of  the  Commune  in  1792, 
when  so  many  desks  flew  open,  and  by  him  given  to  the  world. 
A  book  which  fair  sensibility  (rather  in  a  private  way)  loves  to 
weep  over :  not  this  reviewer,  to  any  considerable  extent ;  not 
at  all  here,  in  his  present  strait  for  room.  Good  love-letters 
of  their  kind  notwithstanding.  But  if  anything  can  swell  far- 
ther the  tears  of  fair  sensibility  over  Mirabeau's  Correspond- 
ence of  Vincennes,  it  must  be  this :  the  issue  it  ended  in. 
After  a  space  of  years,  these  two  lovers,  wrenched  asunder  in 
Holland,  and  allowed  to  correspond  that  they  might  not 
poison  themselves,  met  again  :  it  wTas  under  cloud  of  night ; 
in  Sophie's  apartment,  in  the  country  ;  Mirabeau  '  disguised 
as  a  porter,'  had  come  thither  from  a  considerable  distance. 


138 


MIR  ABE AU. 


And  they  flew  into  each  other's  arms  ;  to  weep  their  child 
dead,  their  long  unspeakable  woes?  Not  at  all.  They  stood, 
arms  stretched  oratorically,  calling  one  another  to  account  for 
causes  of  jealousy  ;  grew  always  louder,  arms  set  a-kimbo  ; 
and  parted  quite  loud,  never  to  meet  more  on  earth.  In. 
September  1789,  Mirabeau  had  risen  to  be  a  world's  wonder : 
and  Sophie,  far  from  him,  had  sunk  out  of  the  world's  sight, 
respected  only  in  the  little  town  of  Gien.  On  the  9th  night 
of  September,  Mirabeau  might  be  thundering  in  the  Versailles 
Salle  des  Menus,  to  be  reported  of  all  Journals  on  the  morrow  ; 
and  Sophie,  twice  disappointed  of  new  marriage,  the  sad- 
heroic  temper  darkened  now  into  perfect  black,  was  reclining, 
self-tied  to  her  sofa,  with  a  pan  of  charcoal  burning  near  ;  to 
die  as  the  unhappy  die.  Said  we  not,  '  the  course  of  true 
love  never  did  run  smooth  ? ' 

However,  after  two  and-forty  months,  and  negotiations, 
and  more  intercessions  than  in  Catholic  countries  will  free  a 
soul  out  of  Purgatory,  Mirabeau  is  once  more  delivered  from 
the  strong  place  :  not  into  his  own  home  (home,  wife  and  the 
whole  Past  are  far  parted  from  him) ;  not  into  his  father's 
home  ;  but  forth  ; — hurled  forth,  to  seek  his  fortune  Ishmael- 
like  in  the  wide  hunting-field  of  the  world.  Consider  him,  O 
reader  ;  thou  wilt  find  him  very  notable.  A  disgraced  man,  not 
a  broken  one  ;  ruined  outwardly,  not  ruined  inwardly  ;  not  yet, 
for  there  is  no  ruining  of  him  on  that  side.  Such  a  buoyancy 
of  radical  fire  and  fond  gaillard  he  has  ;  with  his  dignity  and 
vanity,  levity,  solidity,  with  his  virtues  and  his  vices,  what  a 
front  he  shows !  Yon  would  say,  he  bates  not  a  jot,  in  these 
sad  circumstances,  of  what  he  claimed  from  Fortune,  but 
rather  enlarges  it :  his  proud  soul,  so  galled,  deformed  by 
manacles  and  bondage,  flings  away  its  prison-gear,  bounds- 
forth  to  the  fight  again,  as  if  victory,  after  all,  were  certain. 
Post-horses  to  Pontarlier  and  the  Besanyon  Parlement ;  that 
that  '  sentence  by  contumacy '  be  annulled,  and  the  Paper 
Effigy  have  its  Head  stuck  on  again  !  The  wild  giant,  said  to 
be  *  absent  by  contumacy,'  sits  voluntarily  in  the  Pontarlier 
Jail ;  thunders  in  pleadings  which  make  Parle menteers  quake, 
and  all  France  listen  ;  and  the  Head  reunites  itself  to  the 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


139 


Paper  Effigy  with  apologies.  Monnier  and  the  De  Buffeys 
know  who  is  the  most  impudent  man  alive :  the  world,  with 
astonishment,  who  is  one  of  the  ablest.  Even  the  old  Marquis 
snuffles  approval,  though  with  qualification.  Tough  old  man, 
he  has  lost  his  own  world-famous  Lawsuit  and  other  lawsuits, 
with  ruinous  expenses  ;  has  seen  his  fortune  and  projects  fail, 
and  even  lettres  de  cachet  turn-out  not  always  satisfactory  or 
sanatory :  wherefore  he  summons  his  children  about  him  ; 
and,  really  in  a  very  serene  way,  declares  himself  invalided, 
fit  only  for  the  chimney-nook  now  ;  to  sit  patching  his  old 
mind  together  again  (d  rehouter  sa  tvte,  d  se  recoudre  piice  d 
piece) :  advice  and  countenance  they,  the  deserving  part  of 
them,  shall  always  enjoy  ;  but  lettres  de  cachet,  or  other  the 
like  benefit  and  guidance,  not  any  more.  Eight  so,  thou  best 
of  old  Marquises  !  There  he  rests  then,  like  the  still  evening 
of  a  thundery  day  ;  thunders  no  more  ;  but  rays-forth  many  a 
curiously-tinted  light-beam  and  remark  on  life  ;  serene  to  the 
last.  Among  Mirabeau's  small  catalogue  of  virtues,  very 
small  of  formulary  and  conventional  virtues,  let  it  not  be  for- 
gotten that  he  loved  this  old  father  warmly  to  the  end ;  and 
forgave  his  cruelties,  or  forgot  them  in  kind  interpretation  of 
them. 

For  the  Pontarlier  Paper  Effigy,  therefore,  it  is  well :  and 
yet  a  man  lives  not  comfortably  without  money.  Ah,  were 
one's  marriage  not  disrupted  ;  for  the  old  father-in-law  will 
soon  die  ;  those  rich  expectations  were  then  fruitions !  The 
ablest,  not  the  most  shamefaced  man  in  France,  is  off,  next 
spring  (1783),  to  Aix  ;  stirring  Parlement  and  Heaven  and 
Earth  there,  to  have  his  wife  back.  How  he  worked  ;  with 
what  nobleness  and  courage  (according  to  the  Mis  Adoptif)  ; 
giant's  work  !  The  sound  of  him  is  spread  over  France  and 
over  the  world  ;  English  travellers,  high  foreign  lordships, 
turning  aside  to  Aix  ;  and  '  multitudes  gathered  even  on  the 
roofs  '  to  hear  him,  the  Court-house  being  crammed  to  burst- 
ing !  Demosthenic  fire  and  pathos  ;  penitent  husband  calling 
for  forgiveness  and  restitution : — c  ce  riest  quunclaquedentset  un 
fol'  rays-forth  the  old  Marquis  from  the  chimney-nook  ;  '  a 
clatter-teeth  and  madman  ! '  The  world  and  Parlement  thought 


140 


MIR  ABE  A  0. 


not  that  ;  knew  not  what  to  think,  if  not  that  this  was  the  ques- 
tionablest  able  man  they  had  ever  heard  ;  and,  alas,  still 
farther, — that  his  cause  was  untenable.  No  wife,  then  ;  and  no 
money  !  From  this  second  attack  on~Fortune,  Mirabeau  re- 
turns foiled,  and  worse  than  before  ;  resourceless,  for  now  the 
old  Marquis  too  again  eyes  him  askance.  He  must  hunt  Ish- 
mael-like,  as  we  said.  Whatsoever  of  wit  or  strength  he  has 
within  himself  will  stand  true  to  him  ;  on  that  he  can  count ; 
unfortunately  on  almost  nothing  but  that. 

Mirabeau's  life  for  the  next  five  years,  which  creeps  troublous, 
obscure,  through  several  of  these  Eight  Volumes,  will  prob- 
ably, in  the  One  right  Volume  which  they  hold  imprisoned,  be 
delineated  briefly.  It  is  the  long-drawn  practical  improvement 
of  the  sermon  already  preached  in  Ehe,  in  If,  in  Joux,  in  Hol- 
land, in  Vincennes  and  elsewhere.  A  giant  man  in  the  flower 
of  his  years,  in  the  winter  of  his  prospects,  has  to  see  how  he 
will  reconcile  these  twro  contradictions.  With  giant  energies 
and  talents,  with  giant  virtues  even,  he,  burning  to  unfold 
himself,  has  got  put  into  his  hands,  for  implements  and  means 
to  do  it  with,  disgrace,  contumely,  obstruction  ;  character 
elevated  only  as  Haman  was  ;  purse  full  only  of  debt-sum- 
monses ;  household,  home  and  possessions,  as  it  were,  sown 
with  salt ;  Euin's  ploughshare  furrowing  too  deeply  himself 
and  all  that  was  his.  Under  these,  and  not  under  other  con- 
ditions, shall  this  man  now  live  and  struggle.  Well  might  he 
'  weep '  long  afterwards  (though  not  given  to  the  melting 
mood),  thinking  over,  with  Dumont,  how  his  life  had  been 
blasted,  by  himself,  by  others  ;  and  was  now  so  defaced  and 
thunder-riven,  no  glory  could  make  it  whole  again.  Truly,  as 
we  often  say,  a  weaker,  and  yet  very  strong  man,  might  have 
died, — by  hypochondria,  by  brandy,  or  by  arsenic  :  but  Mira- 
beau did  not  die.  The  world  is  not  his  friend,  nor  the  world's 
law  and  formula?  It  will  be  his  enemy,  then  ;  his  conqueror 
and  master  not  altogether.  There  are  strong  men  who  can, 
in  case  of  necessity,  make  away  with  formulas  (humer  les 
formules),  and  yet  find  a  habitation  behind  them :  these  are 
the  very  strong  ;  and  Mirabeau  was  of  these.    The  world's  es- 


mieAbeau.  hi 

• 

teem  having  gone  quite  against  him,  and  most  circles  of  so- 
ciety, with  their  codes  and  regulations,  pronouncing  little  but 
anathema  on  him,  he  is  nevertheless  not  lost ;  he  does  not 
sink  to  desperation  ;  not  to  dishonesty,  or  pusillanimity,  or 
splenetic  aridity.  Nowise !  In  spite  of  the  world,  he  is  a 
living  strong  man  there  :  the  world  cannot  take  from  him 
his  just  consciousness  of  himself,  his  warm  open-hearted  feeling 
towards  others  ;  there  are  still  limits,  on  all  sides,  to  which 
the  world  and  the  devil  cannot  drive  him.  The  giant,  we  say  ! 
How  he  stands,  like  a  mountain  ;  thunder-riven,  but  broad- 
based,  rooted  in  the  Earth's  (in  Nature  s)  own  rocks  ;  and  will 
not  tumble  prostrate  !  So  true  is  it  what  a  moralist  has  said  : 
'  One  could  not  wish  any  man  to  fall  into  a  fault ;  yet  it  is  often 
4  precisely  after  a  fault,  or  a  crime  even,  that  the  morality 
( which  is  in  a  man  first  unfolds  itself,  and  what  of  strength  he 
*  as  a  man  possesses,  now  when  all  else  is  gone  from  him.' 

Mirabeau,  through  these  dim  years,  is  seen  wandering  from 
place  to  place  ;  in  France,  Germany,  Holland,  England  ;  find- 
ing no  rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot.  It  is  a  life  of  shifts  and 
expedients,  au  jour  le  jour.  Extravagant  in  his  expenses, 
thriftless,  swimming  in  a  welter  of  debts  and  difficulties  ;  for 
which  he  has  to  provide  by  fierce  industry,  by  skill  in  fin  an - 
ciership.  The  man's  revenue  is  his  wits ;  he  has  a  pen  and 
a  head  ;  and,  happily  for  him,  6  is  the  demon  of  the  impossi- 
ble.' At  no  time  is  he  without  some  blazing  project  or  other, 
which  shall  warm  and  illuminate  far  and  wide  ;  which  too 
often  blazes-out  ineffectual  ;  which  in  that  case  he  replaces 
and  renews,  for  his  hope  is  inexhaustible.  He  writes  Pam- 
phlets unweariedly  as  a  steam-engine  :  on  The  Opening  of  the 
Scheldt,  and  Kaiser  Joseph  ;  on  The  Order  of  Oincinnatus,  and 
Washington  ;  on  Count  Cagliostro,  and  the  Diamond  Necklace, 
Innumerable  are  the  helpers  and  journeymen,  respectable 
Mauvillons,  respectable  Dumonts,  whom  he  can  set  working 
for  him  on  such  matters  ;  it  is  a  gift  he  has.  He  writes  Books, 
in  as  many  as  eight  volumes,  which  are  properly  only  a  larger 
kind  of  Pamphlets.  He  has  polemics  with  Caron  Beau- 
marchais  on  the  water-company  of  Paris  ;  lean  Caron  shooting 
sharp  arrows  into  him,  which  he  responds  to  demoniacally, 


Mill  ABE  A  TJ, 


'  flinging  hills  with  all  their  woods.'  He  is  intimate  with 
many  men  ;  his  1  terrible  gift  of  familiarity,'  his  joyous  cour- 
tiership  and  faculty  of  pleasing,  do  not  forsake  him  :  but  it  is 
a  questionable  intimacy,  granted  to  the  man's  talents,  in  spite 
of  his  character :  a  relation  which  the  proud  Kiquetti,  not  the 
humbler  that  he  is  poor  and  ruined,  correctly  feels.  With 
still  more  women  is  he  intimate  ;  girt  with  a  whole  system  of 
intrigues  in  that  sort,  wherever  he  abide  ;  seldom  travelling 
without  a — wife  (let  us  call  her)  engaged  by  the  year,  or  dur- 
ing mutual  satisfaction.  On  this  large  department  of  Mira- 
beau's  history,  what  can  you  say,  except  that  his  incontinence 
was  great,  enormous,  entirely  indefensible  ?  If  any  one  please 
(which  we  do  not)  to  be  present,  with  the  Fils  Adoptif,  at '  the 
autopsie '  and  post-mortem  examination,  he  will  see  curious 
documents  on  this  head  ;  and  to  what  depths  of  penalty  Na- 
ture, in  her  just  self-vindication,  can  sometimes  doom  men. 
The  Fils  Adoptif  is  very  sorry.  To  the  kind  called  unfortu- 
nate-females, it  would  seem  nevertheless,  this  unfortunate-male 
had  an  aversion  amounting  to  complete  nolo-tangere. 

The  old  Marquis  sits  apart  in  the  chimney-nook,  observant : 
what  this  roaming,  unresting,  rebellious  Titan  of  a  Count  may 
ever  prove  of  use  for  ?  If  it  be  not,  O  Marquis,  for  the  Gen- 
eral Overturn  Culbute  Generate  ?  He  is  swallowing  Formulas  ; 
getting  endless  acquaintance  with  the  Bealities  of  things  and 
men  :  in  audacity,  in  recklessness,  he  will  not,  it  is  like,  be 
wanting.  The  old  Marquis  rays-out  curious  observations  on 
life  ; — yields  no  effectual  assistance  of  money. 

Ministries  change  and  shift ;  but  never,  in  the  new  deal, 
does  there  turn-up  a  good  card  for  Mirabeau.  Necker  he 
does  not  love,  nor  is  love  lost  between  them.  Plausible 
Calonne  hears  him  Stentor-like  denouncing  stock-jobbing 
(Denonciation  de  V Agiotage)  ;  communes  with  him,  corre- 
sponds with  him  ;  is  glad  to  get  him  sent,  in  some  semi-osten- 
sible or  spy-diplomatist  character,  to  Berlin ;  in  any  way  to 
have  him  stopped  and  quieted.  The  Great  Frederic  was  still 
on  the  scene,  though  now  very  near  the  side-scenes  :  the  wiry 
thin  Drill-sergeant  of  the  World,  and  the  broad  burly  Muti- 
neer of  the  World,  glanced  into  one  another  with  amazement  ; 


MIR  ABE  A  U. 


US 


the  one  making  entrance,  the  other  making  exit.  To  this 
Berlin  business  we  owe  pamphlets ;  we  owe  Correspondences 
('surreptitiously  published' — with  consent)  :  we  owe  (brave 
Major  Mauvillon  serving  as  hodman)  the  Monarchie  Prus- 
sienne,  a  Pamphlet  in  some  eight  octavo  volumes,  portions  of 
which  are  still  well  worth  reading. 

Generally,  on  first  making  personal  acquaintance  with 
Mirabeau  as  a  writer  or  speaker,  one  is  not  a  little  surprised. 
Instead  of  Irish  oratory,  with  tropes  and  declamatory  fervid 
feeling,  such  as  the  rumour  one  has  heard  gives  prospect  of, 
you  are  astonished  to  meet  a  certain  hard  angular  distinct- 
ness, a  totally  unornamented  force  and  massiveness:  clear 
perspicuity,  strong  perspicacity,  conviction  that  wishes  to  con- 
vince,— this  beyond  all  things,  and  instead  of  all  things.  You 
would  say  the  primary  character  of  those  utterances,  nay  of 
the  man  himself,  is  sincerity  and  insight ;  strength  and  the 
honest  use  of  strength.  Which  indeed  it  is  O  reader !  Mira- 
beau's  spiritual  gift  will  be  found  on  examination,  to  be  verily 
an  honest  and  a  great  one  ;  far  the  strongest,  best  practical 
intellect  of  that  time  ;  entitled  to  rank  among  the  strong  of 
all  times.  These  books  of  his  ought  to  be  riddled,  like  this 
book  of  the  Fils  Adoptif.  There  is  precious  matter  in  them  ; 
too  good  to  lie  hidden  among  shot-rubbish.  Hear  this  man 
on  any  subject,  you  will  find  him  wTorth  considering.  He 
has  words  in  him,  rough  deliverances ;  such  as  men  do  not 
forget.  As  thus :  '  I  know  but  three  ways  of  living  in  this 
'  world  :  by  wages  for  work  ;  by  begging  ;  thirdly,  by  steal- 
ing (so  named,  or  not  so  named).'    Again:  'Malebranche 

*  saw  all  things  in  God  ;  and  M.  Necker  sees  all  things  in 

*  Necker  ! '  There  are  nicknames  of  Mirabeau's  worth  whole 
treatises.  '  Grandison-Cromwell  Lafayette  : '  w7rite  a  volume 
on  the  man,  as  many  volumes  have  been  written,  and  try  to 
say  more  !  It  is  the  best  likeness  yet  drawn  of  him, — by  a 
nourish  and  two  dots.  Of  such  inexpressible  advantage  is  it 
that  a  man  have  'an  eye,  instead  of  a  pair  of  spectacles 
merely  ; '  that,  seeing  through  the  formulas  of  things,  and 
even  c  making  away '  with  many  a  formula,  he  see  into  the 
thing  itself,  and  so  know  it  and  be  master  of  it ! 


Mill  ABE  A  U. 


As  the  years  roll  on,  and  that  portentous  decade  of  the 
Eighties,  or  '  Era  of  Hope/  draws  towards  completion,  and  it 
becomes  ever  more  evident  to  Mirabeau  that  great  things  are 
in  the  wind,  we  find  his  wanderings,  as  it  were,  quicken. 
Suddenly  emerging  out  of  Night  and  Cimmeria,  he  dashes- 
down  on  the  Paris  world,  time  after  time  ;  flashes  into  it  with 
that  fire-glance  of  his  ;  discerns  that  the  time  is  not  yet  come  ; 
and  then  merges  back  again.  Occasionally  his  pamphlets 
provoke  a  f ulmination  and  order  of  arrest,  wherefore  he  must 
merge  the  faster.  Nay,  your  Ca]onne  is  good  enough  to 
signify  it  beforehand  :  On  such  and  such  a  day  I  shall  order 
you  to  be  arrested ;  pray  make  speed  therefore.  When  the 
Notables  meet,  in  the  spring  of  1787,  Mirabeau  spreads  his 
pinions,  alights  on  Paris  and  Versailles  ;  it  seems  to  him  he 
ought  to  be  secretary  of  those  Notables.  No  ;  friend  Dupont 
de  Nemours  gets  it :  the  time  in  not  yet  come.  It  is  still  but 
the  time  of  c  Crispin-Catiline '  d'Espremenil,  and  other  such 
animal-magnetic  persons.  Nevertheless,  the  reverend  Talley- 
rand, judicious  Dukes,  liberal  noble  friends  not  a  few,  are 
sure  that  the  time  will  come.    Abide  thy  time. 

Hark  !  On  the  27th  of  December  1788,  here  finally  is  the 
long-expected  announcing  itself  :  royal  Proclamation  defini- 
tively convoking  the  States-General  for  May  next !  Need  we 
ask  whether  Mirabeau  bestirs  himself  now  ;  whether  or  not  he 
is  off  to  Provence,  to  the  Assembly  of  Noblesse  there,  with  all 
his  faculties  screwed  to  the  sticking-place  ?  One  strong  dead- 
lift  pull,  thou  Titan,  and  perhaps  thou  carriest  it !  How  Mira- 
beau wrestled  and  strove  under  these  auspices  ;  speaking  and 
contending  all  day,  writing  pamphlets,  paragraphs,  all  night ; 
also  suffering  much,  gathering  his  wild  soul  together,  motion- 
less  under  reproaches,  under  drawn  swords  even,  lest  his  ene- 
mies throw  him  off  his  guard ;  how  he  agitates  and  represses,  un- 
erringly dexterous,  sleeplessly  unwearied,  and  is  a  very  'demon 
of  the  impossible/  let  all  readers  fancy.  With  ca  body  of  No- 
blesse more  ignorant,  greedier,  more  insolent  than  any  I  have 
ever  seen/  the  Swallower  of  Formulas  was  like  to  have  rough 
work.  We  must  give  his  celebrated  flinging-up  of  the  handful 
of  dust,  when  they  drove  him  out  by  overwhelming  majority : 


MIRABEAU. 


145 


'  What  have  I  done  that  was  so  criminal  ?  I  have  wished  that  my 
f>rder  were  wise  enough  to  give  to-day  what  will  infallibly  be  wrested 
from  it  to-morrow  ;  that  it  should  receive  the  merit  and  glory  of  sanc- 
tioning the  assemblage  of  the  Three  Orders,  which  all  Provence  loudly 
demands.  This  is  the  crime  of  your  '*  enemy  of  peace  !  "  Or  rather,  I 
have  ventured  to  believe  that  the  people  might  be  in  the  right.  Ah, 
doubtless,  a  patrician  soiled  with  such  a  thought  deserves  vengeance  ! 
But  I  am  still  guiltier  than  you  think  ;  for  it  is  my  belief  that  the  peo- 
ple which  complains  is  always  in  the  right  ;  that  its  indefatigable  pa- 
tience invariably  waits  the  uttermost  excesses  of  oppression,  before  it 
can  determine  on  resisting ;  that  it  never  resists  long  enough  to  obtain 
complete  redress  ;  and  does  not  sufficiently  know  that  to  strike  its 
enemies  into  terror  and  submission,  it  has  only  to  stand  still ;  that  the 
most  innocent  as  the  most  invincible  of  all  powers  is  the  power  of  re- 
fusing to  do.  I  believe  after  this  manner :  punish  the  enemy  of 
peace ! 

'  But  you,  ministers  of  a  God  of  peace,  who  are  ordained  to  bless  and 
not  to  curse,  and  yet  have  launched  your  anathema  on  me,  without 
even  the  attempt  at  enlightening  me,  at  reasoning  with  me  !  And  you, 
u  friends  of  peace,"  who  denounce  to  the  people,  with  all  vehemence 
of  hatred,  the  one  defender  it  has  yet  found,  out  of  its  own  ranks  ; — 
who,  to  bring  about  concord,  are  filling  capital  and  province  with  pla- 
cards calculated  to  arm  the  rural  districts  against  the  towns,  if  your 
deeds  did  not  refute  your  writings  ;— who,  to  prepare  ways  of  concilia- 
tion, protest  against  the  royal  Kegulation  for  convoking  the  States  Gen- 
eral, because  it  grants  the  people  as  many  deputies  as  both  the  other 
orders,  and  against  all  that  the  coming  National  Assembly  shall  do,  un- 
less its  laws  secure  the  triumph  of  your  pretensions,  the  eternity  of  your 
privileges!  Disinterested  "friends  of  peace!"  I  have  appealed  to 
your  honour,  and  summon  you  to  state  what  expressions  of  mine  have 
offended  against  either  the  respect  we  owe  to  the  royal  authority  or  to 
the  nation's  right  ?  Nobles  of  Provence,  Europe  is  attentive  ;  weigh 
well  your  answer.    Men  of  God,  beware  ;  God  hears  you  ! 

1  And  if  you  do  not  answer,  but  keep  silence,  shutting  yourselves  up 
in  the  vague  declamations  you  have  hurled  at  me,  then  allow  me  to  add 
one  word. 

.  *  In  all  countries,  in  all  times,  aristocrats  have  implacably  persecuted 
the  people's  friends  ;  and  if,  by  some  singular  combination  of  fortune, 
there  chanced  to  arise  such  a  one  in  their  own  circle,  it  was  he  above 
all  whom  they  struck  at,  eager  to  inspire  wider  terror  by  the  elevation 
of  their  victim.  Thus  perished  the  last  of  the  Gracchi  by  the  hands  of 
the  patricians  ;  but,  being  struck  with  the  mortal  stab,  he  flung  dust 
towards  Heaven,  and  called  on  the  Avenging  Deities  ;  and  from  this 
dust  sprang  Marius, — Marius  not  so  illustrious  for  exterminating  th.9 
Cimbri  as  for  overturning  in  Rome  the  tyranny  of  the  Noblesse  I ! 
10 


146 


MIRABEAU. 


There  goes  some  foolish  story  of  Mirabeau  having  now 
opened  a  cloth-shop  in  Marseilles,  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
the  Third  Estate  ;  whereat  we  have  often  laughed.  The  im- 
age of  Mirabeau  measuring  out  drapery  to  mankind,  and 
deftly  snipping  at  tailors'  measures,  has  something  pleasant 
for  the  mind.  So  that,  though  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  truth 
in  this  story,  the  very  lie  may  justly  sustain  itself  for  a  while 
in  the  character  of  lie.  Far  otherwise  was  the  reality  there  : 
'  voluntary  guard  of  a  hundred  men  Provence  crowding  by 
the  ten-thousand  round  his  chariot- wheels  ;  explosions  of  re- 
joicing musketry,  heaven-rending  acclamation  ;  c  people  pay- 
ing two  louis  for  a  place  at  the  window  ! '  Hunger  itself 
(very  considerable  in  those  days)  he  can  pacify  by  speech. 
Violent  meal-mobs  at  Marseilles  and  at  Aix,  unmanageable  by 
fire-arms  and  governors,  he  smoothes-down  by  the  word  of  his 
mouth  ;  the  governor  [soliciting  him,  though  unloved.  It  is 
as  a  Roman  Triumph,  and  more.  He  is  chosen  deputy  for 
two  places  ;  has  to  decline  Marseilles,  and  honour  Aix.  Let 
his  enemies  look  and  wonder,  and  sigh  forgotten  by  him. 
For  this  Mirabeau  too  the  career  at  last  opens. 

At  last !  Does  not  the  benevolent  reader,  though  never  so 
unambitious,  sympathise  a  little  with  this  poor  brother  mortal 
in  such  a  case  ?  Victory  is  always  joyful ;  but  to  think  of 
such  a  man,  in  the  hour  when,  after  twelve  Hercules'  Labours, 
he  does  finally  triumph !  So  long  he  fought  with  the  many- 
headed  coil  of  Lernean  serpents  ;  and,  panting,  wrestled  and 
wrang  with  it  for  life  or  death, — forty  long  stern  years  ;  and 
now  he  has  it  under  his  heel !  The  mountain  -tojDS  are  scaled, 
are  scaled  ;  where  the  man  climbed,  on  sharp  flinty  precipices, 
slippery,  abysmal ;  in  darkness,  seen  by  no  kind  eye, — amid 
the  brood  of  dragons  ;  and  the  heart,  many  times,  was  like  to 
fail  within  him,  in  his  loneliness,  in  his  extreme  need  :  yet  he 
climbed,  and  climbed,  gluing  his  footsteps  in  his  blood  ;  and 
now,  behold,  Hyperion-like  he  has  scaled  it,  and  on  the  sum- 
mit shakes  his  glittering  shafts  of  war  !  What  a  scene  and  new 
kingdom  for  him  ;  all  bathed  in  auroral  radiance  of  Hope  ; 
far-stretching,  solemn,  joyful  :  what  wild  Memnon's  music, 
from  the  depths  of  Nature,  comes  toning  through  the  soul 


MIRABEA  U. 


147 


raised  suddenly  out  of  strangling  death  into  victory  and  life  ! 
The  very  bystander  we  think,  might  weep,  with  this  Mirabeau, 
tears  of  joy. 

Which,  alas,  will  become  tears  of  sorrow7 !  For  know,  O 
Son  of  Adam  (and  Son  of  Lucifer,  with  that  accursed  ambition 
of  thine),  that  they  are  all  a  delusion  and  piece  of  demonic 
necromancy,  these  same  auroral  splendours,  enchantments 
and  Memnon's  tones  !  The  thing  thou  as  mortal  wantest  is 
equilibrium,  what  is  called  rest  or  peace  ;  which,  God  knows, 
thou  wilt  never  get  so.  Happy  they  that  find  it  without  such 
searching.  But  in  some  twenty-three  months  more,  of  blaz- 
ing solar  splendour  and  conflagration,  this  Mirabeau  will  be 
ashes  ;  and  lie  opaque,  in  the  Pantheon  of  great  men  (or  say, 
French  Pantheon  of  considerable,  or  even  of  considered  and 
small-noisy  men), — at  rest  nowhere,  save  on  the  lap  of  his 
mother  Earth.  There  are  to  whom  the  gods,  in  their  bounty, 
give  glory  ;  but  far  of tener  is  it  given  in  wrath,  as  a  curse  and 
a  poison  ;  disturbing  the  whole  inner  health  and  industry  of 
the  man  ;  leading  onward  through  dizzy  staggerings  and  tar- 
antula jiggings, — towards  no  saint's  shrine.  Truly,  if  Death 
did  not  intervene  ;  or  still  more  happily,  if  Life  and  the  Pub- 
lic were  not  a  blockhead,  and  sudden  unreasonable  oblivion 
were  not  to  follow  that  sudden  unreasonable  glory,  and  benefi- 
cently, though  most  painfully,  damp  it  down, — one  sees  not 
where  many  a  poor  glorious  man,  still  more  many  a  poor  glori- 
ous woman  could  terminate, — far  short  of  Bedlam. 

On  the  4th  day  of  May,  1789,  Madame  de  Stael,  looking 
from  a  window  in  the  main  street  of  Versailles,  amid  an  as- 
sembled world,  as  the  Deputies  walked  in  procession  from 
the  Church  of  Notre-Dame  to  that  of  Saint  Louis,  to  hear 
High  Mass,  and  be  constituted  States- General,  saw  this : 
'  Among  these  Nobles  who  had  been  deputed  to  the  Third 
*  Estate,  above  all  others  the  Comte  de  Mirabeau.  The  opin- 
'  ion  men  had  of  his  genius  was  singulary  augmented  by  the 
'  fear  entertained  of  his  immorality  ;  and  yet  it  was  this  very 
'  immorality  which  straitened  the  influence  bis  astonishing 
i  faculties  were  to  secure  him.    You  could  not  but  look  long 


148 


JMIBABEA  U. 


'  at  this  man,  when  once  you  had  noticed  him  :  his  immense 
'  black  head  of  hair  distinguished  him  among  them  all ;  you 
•  would  have  said  his  force  depended  on  it,  like  that  of  Sam- 
'  son  :  his  face  borrowed  new  expression  from  its  very  ugli- 
£  ness ;  his  whole  person  gave  you  the  idea  of  an  irregular 
£  power,  but  a  power  such  as  you  would  figure  in  a  Tribune 
■  of  the  People.'  Mirabeau's  history  through  the  first  twenty- 
three  months  of  the  Kevolution  falls  not  to  be  written  here, 
yet  it  is  well  worth  writing  somewhere.  The  Constituent  As- 
sembly, when  his  name  was  first  read  out,  received  it  with 
murmurs ;  not  knowing  what  they  murmured  at !  This 
honourable  member  they  were  murmuring  over  was  the  mem- 
ber of  all  members ;  the  august  Constituent,  without  him 
were  no  Constituent  at  all.  Very  notable,  truly,  is  his  pro- 
cedure in  this  section  of  world-history  ;  by  far  the  notablest 
single  element  there  :  none  like  to  him,  or  second  to  him. 
Once  he  is  seen  visibly  to  have  saved,  as  with  his  own  force, 
the  existence  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  ;  to  have  turned 
the  whole  tide  of  things  :  in  one  of  those  moments  which  are 
cardinal ;  decisive  for  centuries.  The  Eoyal  Declaration  of 
the  Twenty-third  of  June  is  promulgated  :  there  is  military 
force  enough  ;  there  is  then  the  King's  express  order  to  dis- 
perse, to  meet  as  separate  Third  Estate  on  the  morrow.  Bas- 
tilles and  scaffolds  may  be  the  penalty  of  disobeying.  Mira- 
beau  disobeys  ;  lifts  his  voice  to  encourage  others,  all  pallid, 
panic-stricken,  to  disobey.  Supreme  Usher  De  Breze  enters, 
with  the  King's  renewed  order  to  depart.  "  Messieurs,"  said 
De  Breze,  "you  heard  the  King's  order?"  The  Swallower 
of  Formulas  bellows-out  these  words,  that  have  become 
memorable  :  "Yes,  Monsieur,  we  heard  what  the  King  was 
advised  to  say  ;  and  you,  who  cannot  be  interpreter  of  his 
meaning  to  the  States-General ;  you,  who  have  neither  vote, 
nor  seat,  nor  right  of  speech  here,  you  are  not  the  man  to  re- 
mind us  of  it.  Go,  Monsieur,  tell  those  who  sent  you,  that 
we  are  here  by  will  of  the  Nation  ;  and  that  nothing  but  the 
force  of  bayonets  can  drive  us  hence  ! "  And  poor  De  Breze 
vanishes, — back  foremost,  the  Fits  Adoptif  says. 

But  this,  cardinal  moment  though  it  be,  is  perhaps  intrin- 


MIUABEAU. 


149 


sically  among  his  smaller  feats.  In  general,  we  would  say 
once  more  with  emphasis,  He  has  'hume  toutes  les  formates. 
He  goes  through  the  Ee volution,  like  a  substance  and  a  force, 
not  like  a  formula  of  one.  While  innumerable  barren  Sieyeses 
and  Constitution-pedants  are  building,  with  such  hammering 
and  trowelling,  their  august  Paper  Constitution  (which  en- 
dured eleven  months),  this  man  looks  not  at  cobwebs  and 
Social  Contracts,  but  at  things  and  men  ;  discerning  what  is 
to  be  done, — proceeding  straight  to  do  it.  He  shivers-out 
Usher  De  Breze,  back  foremost,  when  that  is  the  problem. 
*  Marie  Antoinette  is  charmed  with  him/  when  it  comes  to 
that.  He  is  the  man  of  the  Revolution,  while  he  lives  ;  king 
of  it ;  and  only  with  life,  as  we  compute,  would  have  quitted 
his  kingship  of  it.  Alone  of  all  these  Twelve-hundred,  there 
is  in  him  the  faculty  of  a  king.  For,  indeed,  have  we  not 
seen  how  assiduously  Destiny  had  shaped  him  all  along,  as 
with  an  express  eye  to  the  work  now  in  hand?  O  crabbed  old 
Friend  of  Men,  whilst  thou  wert  bolting  this  man  into  Isles  of 
Rhe,  Castles  of  If,  and  training  him  so  sharply  to  be  thyself, 
not  himself, — how  little  knewest  thou  what  thou  wert  doing  ! 
Let  us  add,  that  the  brave  old  Marquis  lived  to  see  his  son's 
victory  over  Fate  and  men,  and  rejoiced  in  it ;  and  rebuked 
Barrel  Mirabeau  for  controverting  such  a  Brother  Gabriel.  In 
the  invalid  Chimney-nook  at  Argenteuil,  near  Paris,  he  sat  ray- 
ing-out  curious  observations  to  the  last ;  and  died  three  days 
before  the  Bastille  fell,  precisely  when  the  Culbute  Generate 
was  bursting  out. 

But  finally,  the  twenty-three  allotted  months  are  over. 
Madame  de  Stael,  on  the  4th  of  May,  1789,  saw  the  Roman 
Tribune  of  the  People,  and  Samson  with  his  long  black  hair  : 
and  on  the  4th  of  April,  1791,  there  is  a  Funeral  Procession 
extending  four  miles  :  king's  ministers,  senators,  national 
guards,  and  all  Paris, — torchlight,  wail  of  trombones  and 
music,  and  the  tears  of  men  ;  mourning  of  a  whole  people, — 
such  mourning  as  no  modern  people  ever  saw  for  one  man. 
This  Mirabeau's  work  then  is  done.  He  sleeps  with  the 
primeval  giants.  He  has  gone  over  to  the  majority  :  Abiit  ad 
plures. 


150 


MIR  ABE  ATI. 


In  the  way  of  eulogy  and  dyslogy,  and  summing-up  of  char- 
acter, there  may  doubtless  be  a  great  many  things  set  forth 
concerning  this  Mirabeau  ;  as  already  there  has  been  much 
discussion  and  arguing  about  him,  better  and  worse  :  which 
is  proper  surely ;  as  about  all  manner  of  new  things,  were  they 
much  less  questionable  than  this  new  giant  is.  The  present 
reviewer,  meanwhile,  finds  it  suitabler  to  restrict  himself 
and  his  exhausted  readers  to  the  three  following  moral  reflec- 
tions. 

Moral  reflection  first :  That,  in  these  centuries  men  are 
not  born  demi-gods  and  perfect  characters,  but  imperfect 
ones,  and  mere  blamable  men ;  men,  namely,  environed  with 
such  short  coming  and  conf  usion  of  their  own,  and  then  with 
such  adscititious  scandal  and  mis  judgment  (got  in  the  work 
they  did),  that  they  resemble  le$s  demi-gods  than  a  sort  of 
god-devils, — very  imperfect  characters  indeed.  The  demi-god 
arrangement  were  the  one  which,  at  first  sight,  this  reviewer 
might  be  inclined  to  prefer. 

Moral  reflection  second,  however :  That  probably  men  were 
never  born  demi-gods  in  any  century,  but  precisely  god-devils 
as  we  see  ;  certain  of  whom  do  become  a  kind  of  demi-gods  ! 
How  many  are  the  men,  not  censured,  misjudged,  calumniated 
only,  but  tortured,  crucified,  hung  on  gibbets, — not  as  god- 
devils  even,  but  as  devils  proper  ;  who  have  nevertheless 
grown  to  seem  respectable,  or  infinitely  respectable  !  For  the 
thing  which  was  not  they,  which  was  not  anything,  has  fallen 
away  piecemeal ;  and  become  avowedly  babble  and  confused 
shadow,  and  no-thing  :  the  thing  which  was  they,  remains. 
Depend  on  it,  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,  as  clear  as  they 
now  look,  had  illegal  plottings,  conclaves  at  the  Jacobins' 
Church  of  Athens ;  and  very  intemperate  things  were  spoken, 
and  also  done.  Thus  too,  Marcus  Brutus  and  the  elder  Junius, 
are  they  not  palpable  Heroes  ?  Their  praise  is  in  all  Debating 
Societies  ;  but  didst  thou  read  what  the  Morning  Papers  said 
of  those  transactions  of  theirs,  the  week  after?  Nay,  Old  Noll, 
whose  bones  were  dug-up  and  hung  in  chains  here  at  home, 
as  the  just  emblem  of  himself  and  his  deserts,  the  offal  of 
creation. at  that  time, — has  not  he  too  got  to  be  a  very  respect- 


MIR  ABE  All. 


151 


able  grim  bronze-figure,  though  it  is  yet  only  a  century  and 
half  since  ;  of  whom  England  seems  proud  rather  than  other- 
wise ? 

Moral  reflection  third  and  last  :  That  neither  thou  nor  I. 
good  reader,  had  any  hand  in  the  making  of  this  Mirabeau  ; 
— else  who  knows  but  wTe  had  objected,  in  our  wisdom  ?  But 
it  was  the  Upper  Powers  that  made  him,  without  once  con- 
sulting us  ;  they  and  not  we,  so  and  not  otherwise  !  To  en- 
deavour to  understand  a  little  what  manner  of  Mirabeau  he, 
so  made,  might  be  :  this  we,  according  to  opportunity,  have 
done  ;  and  therefore  do  now,  with  a  lively  satisfaction,  take 
farewell  of  him,  and  leave  him  to  prosper  as  he  can. 


